The Garden of Ideology

by kudzuhaiku

Rating: everyone
Tags: Slice of Life, My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic, Princess Luna, Original Character
Length: 42945

Nut, a young evolutionary biologist, visits a farm to investigate the strange goings on.

Nut, an unflappably polite young professional, goes to investigate the reports of strange creatures in the Widowwood, on the Solanum Family Farm. What he finds is remarkable; a controlling, conniving matriarch, carnivorous vegetables, and what might just be a new best friend.

The farm is infested with trolls, both literally and figuratively. The trolls keep Susan busy. Who is Susan, you might be asking. The answer is both crazy and mundane.

A short story assembled from scraps of a story that never got published for the Weedverse.

Published 2019-06-24 03:30:01 UTC
Last updated 2019-07-04 15:46:36 UTC

Chapter 1

Armed with a stylish umbrella, Nut surveyed the train stop. Classifying it as a station would be quite impossible. There wasn’t even a platform for entry and egress, but movable wooden stairs had been placed just below the train car’s door. There was a building here, it had a slanting roof and the cedar shingles had seen better days. According to the sign over the door, this was the post office of the township of Widowwood.

Nut pulled a brass pocketwatch from his waistcoat pocket, popped it open with a flick of magic, and had himself a look at the time. While it was open, his eyes strayed to the black and white photograph of his father and mother, Bulb and Clove. It was an amusing, droll photograph, because his father’s collar hadn’t been properly starched that day, so it sagged the moment the flash bulb went off. Mortified, his father had a rather bug-eyed expression, and his mother’s ears suggested that she was quite cross.

The help had been reprimanded with a stern eyebrow, raised in a vague, threatening manner, the very same eyebrow that Nut had grown to fear as a foal. It wasn’t that his mother was a mean mare, far from it, but his mother had standards. Standards had to be upheld, otherwise, one suffered from a dearth of standards, and nopony wanted that.

“Suitcase,” the baggage handler grunted as said suitcase was sat down upon the worn, patchy grass, tread bare by many hooves in some places.

“Ah, thank you, good sir.”

“Phah, Canterlot ponies.” The baggage handler, a cantankerous fellow, vanished back inside of the train, and was gone.

“Well, I say.” Nut closed his pocketwatch with a smart, soft click, tucked it into his tweed waistcoat, and then spent a moment examining his suitcase, an item that had seen better days.

It was an old, battered, tired thing that had once belonged to his mother. When she was young, she traveled a fair bit, just like Nut did. His mother had a Doctorate in Garlicology, and she was also one of Equestria’s leading experts on vampiric parasitology. This suitcase had seen action in its youth, but now, the poor thing was old and tired. The wood was scuffed and scratched, but the brass hinges were well-polished. Nut’s suitcase had character.

“Mister Nut? Is that you?”

“Just Nut, if you please,” he said to the mare addressing him. “Mister Nut sounds so silly, don’t you think? Might I inquire who you are? I seem to be at a disadvantage. You know my name, but I know not yours.”

The mare in question was a big hulking brute of a pony, rather bluish purple, with keen eyes and a commanding stare. She spent a moment sizing Nut up before she replied, “I am Blaue Viola Solanum, of the Solanum family, Descendents of the Almighty Celestia. I’m the mayor of Widowwood, the postmaster, the town’s sole schoolteacher, the librarian, and I’m the train station manager. As mayor, I contacted the university for help. So, have you come to help, professor?”

“Oh, I’m not a professor.”

This earned Nut a scowl.

“I’m a student. Of evolutionary biology.”

“Evolution isn’t real,” the burly mare barked. “In the beginning, Almighty Celestia created the skies, the seas, and the firmament. She created all of the animals, and created ponies in her own image. Evolution suggests that the Almighty Celestia is not in control, and she is in control. Of everything. Our creator wouldn’t allow her creation to run rampant.”

Nut found himself at a loss for words.

“I have garden pests,” Blaue Viola said. “Some kind of previously unknown species. I’m not allowed to eradicate them, by order of the Almighty Celestia. I contacted multiple universities, but for some reason, none of them wanted to help me. Thankfully, the Almighty contacted the university in Vanhoover, and demanded a favour. Her will be done.”

Demanded? Nut distinctly remembered the telegraph delivered to the biology department. There was no demand there. Raven had quite politely requested that a qualified biologist go to Widowwood and investigate. Sure, Raven was a little terse, but she was a busy mare. Nut knew her. She was a dear friend of the family, and a foalhood playmate of his mother.

“Nut, eh? What sort of mother names their foal ‘Nut’ anyhow?”

Jarred from his silence, Nut’s response was immediate. “I was… I think eight or nine years of age? My lifelong interest had not manifested yet and I had no mark. Up to this point, I had not been named, though I had nicknames. I rather caused a bit of a fuss, because I went running and shouting through our library. Can’t remember what I was going on about, probably some bit of foalhood foolishness. My mother said I was behaving like a nut, and so she called me Nut, and to my recollection, I haven’t raised my voice or ran indoors ever since. I’d hate to think what else she might call me.”

The big blueish mare squinted at Nut incredulously.

“Well, to be fair, I was acting like a little nut. Sometimes, I’d get overstimulated from my fencing lessons and I was positively dreadful, I assure you. I deserved it.”

“Yer weird, Nut. You know that?”

“I come from House Eccentrica, one of Equestria’s oldest and most noble of houses. ‘Tis my birthright to be weird.” He took a moment to adjust his lapels and smoothed out a few wrinkles from his tweed waistcoat. “Like you, dear madam, I come from a storied lineage.”

“Never heard of House Eccentrica. Who founded that house?”

“Smart Cookie—”

“She’s an earth pony,” Blaue pointed out.

“Why yes, yes she is.” He found himself a bit miffed by the interruption. “She foaled unicorns, and we’ve all been unicorns ever since. But we’ve never forgotten that our founder was an earth pony.”

“Well, that’s good of ya, I suppose.” The big mare seemed mollified by this for some reason and her stern expression softened. “Nut, I seem to have carnivorous vegetables.”

“So I’ve heard.”

“They’ve infested a small patch, but seem to be spreading. Some of my workers have been injured. Bites. I’m told they’re quite aggressive, and nopony has ever seen anything quite like them. When I first heard about one of my farmhooves being attacked by a meat-eating potato, I thought he was drinking on the job again. So, Nut, can you defend yourself?”

“Oh, I assure you, madam, I’ve dealt with things far worse than carnivorous potatoes. I’ve cleared out basilisk infestations and studied mimics. A few toothy vegetables shall not be my end.”

“Good deal.” Blaue seemed to be genuinely impressed. “Follow me, Nut. We have quite a walk ahead of us. I’ll show you my town. We grow potatoes here. Potatoes, glorious potatoes as far as the eye can see. I didn’t need no fancy college education to know about potatoes, it’s in my blood. I’m named after a type of potato, the most noble, most glorious of all vegetables.”

“I’m fond of potatoes,” Nut said to the mare in a most amicable manner.

“Good to hear, Nut. Potatoes are a gift from the Almighty. Celestia’s sacred vegetable and most perfect foodstuff…”

With his field camp established, Nut had himself a well deserved sit on his portable folding stool. There was a wellhouse here, a lean-to shelter for farm equipment, a small water tower above the wellhouse, and vegetables as far as the eye could see. Potatoes, but not just potatoes. Carrots as well, cabbages, squash, the occasional row of beans, everything needed to keep the soil balanced.

He had himself a cool, shady spot to make his observations from, a place to sleep, and he was told that his meals would be brought to him. Nut expected a plethora of potato dishes during his stay. The water tower would make for a fine elevated place of observation and all things considered, this was not a terrible posting.

Less than a yard away, his suitcase sat open, revealing his equipment. Journals, books, multiple cameras, spare clothes, a flare pistol, art supplies, and a large framed picture of his parents, in colour. When this photograph was taken, a button had popped off from his mother’s choker collar, which caused quite a commotion. His father’s eyes were not on his mother’s face, where they should be, but on her neck, where they shouldn’t be.

Against his mother’s wishes, young Nut had saved the photo from certain destruction.

Perched on his stool, Nut unfolded the telescopic tripod, a thin, light, spindley thing that his father would never approve of. Things should be made of wood, steel, brass, and other heavy things—there was a reason why porters could be hired. But Nut chose to live by his own means, without his family’s considerable wealth, and tried to make sure that all of his field gear could be carried in a suitcase.

The air was rich with a warm garden smell; sun-warmed soil, the scent of foliage, with hints of sweetness that comes from green growing things. Birds perched upon the slightly rusty steel struts of the water tower. Where water dripped, there were lush patches of vivid emerald green. There was a certain pastoral beauty to this place and Nut found himself admiring it.

“Stay close, Susan.” Casting a sidelong glance at his umbrella, he smiled the sort of smile of the genteel and well-to-do. “I’m told there are ruffians in the garden, Susan. Now, I’m not one to hide behind a lady, but you are my bodyguard.”

With the tripod unfolded, Nut placed it on the ground.

“Not sure this counts as a garden,” he said to himself. “I find myself adrift upon a sea of spuds.”

Susan did not respond, which was good, as umbrellas were ideally silent companions.

When a bee went flying past, Nut lept from his stool so that he could follow after it. He kept a respectful distance, trailing the bee as it buzzed about, but gave up his chase when the bee went zooming off. Bees were busy creatures, admirable creatures, and Nut rather liked them, even if they were not the primary focus of his studies.

Returning to his gear, Nut placed a camera on the tripod and then went to work attaching the telescoping lens. Expensive gear, bought and paid for out of his own pocket, but oh-so necessary for a field biologist. His stomach growled a bit, protesting the current state of emptiness, and Nut hoped that his host would keep her word. With a suitcase full of gear, there wasn’t much room for supplies, and upgrading to a trunk would be such a headache.

A trunk might very well be necessary, but Nut wasn’t ready to admit that his father was right.

“Mister Nut?”

Whirling about, Nut winced, which almost caused his monocle to pop out, but he was quick to recover. There were two fillies, one older, and one younger. The oldest was holding a picnic basket by the handle, and the youngest one was looking up at him in the curious way that foals do.

“Just Nut, if you please.”

“I’m Colette, and this here’s my sister, Tater Blossom. We was told to bring you lunch, even though it ain’t lunch time. It’ll be supper in a while, but Ma said that’d be a long time to wait, and yer too thin and sickly looking.”

“Sickly?”

“Yeah, Mister, yer thin. I’ve pulled weeds bigger than you.”

Lifting his head up high, Nut recovered himself, but now worried if he should be eating better. Colette was small, yellowish, and rather cheerful. Her sister, Tater Blossom, was a red ruddy colour, the colour of a potato just freed from the soil. Both sisters had vivid orange eyes and manes the colour of fresh hay, a sort of greenish-yellow that was neither green, nor yellow.

Tater Blossom put the picnic basket down, and immediately stuck her head into Nut’s suitcase. When she saw the photograph, she smiled, then laughed, a melodic sound. After a bit of looking around, she lifted her head, looked up at Nut, and then gestured at the picnic basket.

Holding her hoof out, she said, “Dig in, Mister.”

“Why, thank you. I don’t mind if I do.”

“You talk funny,” said Colette, who scuttled closer to her big sister.

“I suppose my dialect sounds strange to you,” Nut replied as he sat down upon his folding portable stool.

“You have an umbrella, and an umbrella cutie mark.” Colette frowned a bit, and with one foreleg, she clung to her sister. “Mama says that umbrellas is sinful.”

Again, Nut’s monocle was in danger of falling out.

“Pray tell, how are umbrellas sinful?” He hoped that Susan wouldn’t be offended by this. She was a good umbrella, and being called sinful might upset her sensibilities. He lifted the picnic basket, and opened it up on one side.

“Well,” Tater Blossom began, “Almighty Celestia makes it rain on both the just and the wicked, and if you get wet, it’s because Celestia wills it. To run afoul of her will is sinful business. Blasphemy.”

To Nut’s ear, it sounded as though Tater Blossom was reciting a lesson, and not something she actually believed. As he dug into the basket, he studied her, and took note of the keen intelligence to be found in her eyes. Yes, yes, the young miss was quoting religious claptrap, but she didn’t appear to be entirely sold on the idea.

“I got chased by a cabbage,” Colette blurted out, “and it tried to bite my bottom. I’m s’posed to eat cabbage, and cabbage ain’t s’posed to eat me. Ma says it’s unnatural, and she says this is the Dark One’s doing.”

“The Dark One?” Nut felt his stomach muscles tense as delightful smells wafted up out of the basket. “Grogar?”

“No, silly… the Dark One. Luna. The one touched by sin.” Colette’s face contorted. “We ain’t s’posed to say her name, it’s a hidin’. Don’t tell on me.”

“Oh.” Nut’s monocle, perhaps distressed by this revelation, took a suicidal dive into the unknown depths of the basket. “Oh, bother and blast.”

“You swore,” Colette said, matter-of-factly.

“So I did.” Monocleless, Nut squinted, suddenly blind to up-close things. “I apologise, young miss. But I was rather caught off guard. You see, I know Celestia. And Luna. I spent a summer working as a page in the castle before I left for university. Celestia would be… upset to hear this. She and her sister Luna, they’re, well, they’re one pony in two bodies. Why, she’s even talked about this in an interview, and this interview was shown in movie theatres across the nation.”

“Movies is sinful.” Colette was solemn and her eyes were like two thunderheads brewing up a storm.

“You know Celestia?” Tater Blossom was more curious than solemn. “What’s she like? You’ve stood in her light? You didn’t burn from wickedness when you was near her?”

“I’m sorry, I need a moment.” Nut fished out his monocle and then made every effort to right himself. Flabbergasted, he tried to process the moment. Nothing in his life had prepared him for this, and all thoughts of a late lunch were forgotten. “Celestia and Luna stand together often, and Luna doesn’t ‘burn from wickedness’ when she’s close. What is this nonsense?”

“The Way of Almighty Celestia isn’t nonsense.” Colette’s thunderhead stare intensified a bit, and her lower lip protruded.

“Princess Celestia would be deeply hurt and offended if she heard this talk about her sister.” After he sat down the basket in front of him, Nut frowned. “I’ve known Celestia all my life. Both Celestia and Luna attended my cute-ceañera… I was a late bloomer. I come from a Founder Family, and the Royals maintain close ties with us out of social obligation.” Shaking his head hard from side to side, he struggled to find more words. “Celestia insists that she’s a pony, just like you or I.”

“Colette, go on back on up to the house.”

“But I—”

“Colette, go on, and do as I say.”

“But I don’t wanna—”

“Get!” Tater Blossom shoved her sister away. “Go on, you don’t need to be hearin’ this sinful business. Now scram!”

Rebuked by her sister, Colette stomped away, and Nut was sad to watch her go.

“Mister, I am powerful sorry ‘bout what I said.”

“You mentioned that already.” Nut’s spoon hovered just over the wooden bowl of ice-cold potato salad as his eyes focused on the filly sitting on the grass.

“Yeah, but I feel bad. I had to send her away somehow, and I kinda lied. At least, it feels like lying. Now I’m scared I’m gonna be in trouble for it.” Miserable, Tater Blossom pawed the grass with her hoof, which was stained green.

Thoughtful, Nut cautiously ate a bite of potato salad, but worried that the conversation would continue. While some ponies could eat and converse, Princess Celestia chief among them, the very idea of talking with his mouth full made him feel faint. Why, it was worse than running amok and shouting in a library.

“Mama’s the school teacher, and this is what we learn in school.” Tater Blossom seemed troubled and for a moment, it seemed as though she might say more. Her mouth hung open, her head shook from side to side, and her nostrils flared wide. But after a few seconds of visible effort, she gave up, and in doing so, went silent and still.

After swallowing his food, Nut said, “I need an assistant while I work. A helper.” Already, a plan was forming, a rather nefarious plan, the sort of plan that might make his mother scowl, but she would approve of his actions. His mother, Clove, did not abide such ignorance. She was a hard-liner, his mother, a puller of ears, and a raiser of eyebrows.

Nut loved her dearly, and did all he could to humour her.

So, infecting a filly with the virtues of science was his mother’s fault, really, when one thought about it in a certain way. Yes, this was his mother’s fault, and not his own. His mother wouldn’t stand for this; why, she’d be straining at her collar and tugging at her petticoats. There would be harrumphing the likes of which had never been heard before.

As for his father, he’d be running about in circles, following after Clove, and trying to fan away her anger. Of the two of them, Bulb was the caregiver, the nice one, and he was far more tolerant of ignorance—though not that tolerant. His father had a well-defined breaking point, and when reached, he and Clove switched roles, as married couples tended to do. Once angered, Bulb was the thunderous one, with vim and vigour, with his temper the stuff of legend in Canterlot. Never anger the pony with the tulip cutie mark, it was said along Royal Row.

“Mama says your some kind of evolutionary biologist,” Tater Blossom said in a voice that was almost squeaky. “She was right mad when she said it, and stomped around the kitchen. What is that, ‘zactly?”

“Well, what it is, it is not yet fully defined. Evolutionary biology is a new field of study. So new, in fact, that it is still being sorted out. I’m a pioneer of sorts. What I do now will determine what the field will one day be. I am laying the foundation for all those who come after me.” Almost amused, Nut suspected that the filly wanted to know more about the world, and he didn’t feel guilty at all now about what he was doing. “One day, I am going to go to the Gallopagos Islands, and I am going to change all of the world. I am slowly saving up for my expedition, which is why I take jobs like this one. My gut tells me that is the place where my destiny and I will meet.”

Eyes now sad, Tater Blossom let heave a sigh and then she turned away. “I’ve never left town. I’m not allowed to leave town. Mama says the world is full of wicked ponies, and that I must never leave. I was born here, I’m gonna live here, and at the end of it all, I’m gonna be buried here, just one more potato in the bin.”

“Is that how you want it to be?” he asked.

Her response was unexpected. “That’s a big umbrella. I ain’t never seen anything like it.”

“That’s Susan.” Nut poked his potato salad with his spoon, but did not take a bite. “On the day I met her, I got my mark. It was love at first sight.”

“That’s a queer thing to say.”

“I’m a queer fellow.”

“She’s longer than I am tall.”

“Oh, Susan wasn’t crafted with ponies in mind. She’s of Minotaurian make. Quite special.”

“Mama says all the minotaurs are evil, and that only ponies are good, because we’re made in Celestia’s image.”

“Do you believe that?”

“Honestly, I don’t know what I believe, and sometimes, that gets me a hidin’. The only way to make it stop is to say I believe. I’m waiting for the whippin’ to continue though, ‘cause Mama has to know I’m lying by now. I gots doubts, and doubts is sinful.”

Though he had much that could be said, Nut maintained thoughtful silence, and took a bite.

“So what’s a cutie mark for an umbrella mean, exactly? Why would you love an umbrella? And why in tarnation is she called ‘Susan,’ ‘cause that’s a weird name and I ain’t never heard it before. Do you two kiss, or something?”

It was good that Tater Blossom had questions. Her curious nature and inquisitiveness hadn’t yet been whipped out of her, and due to this, Nut had high hopes. Maybe, just maybe, he might nurture that desire to learn and keep it alive. As he chewed, he glanced over at Susan, who stood at the ready.

After swallowing, he replied, “Susan is no mere umbrella. She’s a weapon… a Minotaurian War Umbrella. She’ll block more than rain. Dragonfire, claws, sharp things, she makes for a highly functional shield, and there is a concealed blade. Keeping her requires a permit, which I have, and that permit marks me as a functional, respectable member of society. I am trusted to bear arms, and not go about willy-nilly with them, putting others in danger. The moment she and I met, I knew she was the one for me. My mark appeared, and my parents did not hesitate to purchase Susan right away, even though she costs as much as a respectable house.”

“You know, I’m pretty sure that Mama doesn’t even know that such things exist.” Tater Blossom squirmed a bit, her muzzle crinkled with wrinkles, and she continued to paw the ground with one hoof. “But I bet she’d think it was bad. Cameras are bad.”

Nut took the offered bait. “Why are cameras bad?”

“Well, ‘cause, you see, they trap and interfere with light, and all that is light belongs to the Almighty Celestia. And it ain’t our right to tamper with it. That’s why movies are sinful too. We’re s’posed to respect the light, not mess with it.”

“Does your mother have mirrors?” he asked.

“Yeah, she does.”

“Well,” he began whilst eyeballing a sliver of pickle in his potato salad, “mirrors work by reflecting light. They’re not so different from a photograph, really. It’s all light manipulation.”

“Huh.” Tater Blossom reached up and rubbed her chin. “Don’t tell Mama that, she’ll have conniption fits.”

“And all the mirrors would be smashed.” This would be amusing, if it weren't so tragic, and Nut had trouble with the fact that these attitudes existed in the world.

“Prolly.”

“I’ll teach you how to use a camera,” he offered.

“Really?”

“Sure. Why not?”

“When?”

“As soon as I’m finished eating.”

“That’ll be wonnerful!”

Once Tater Blossom got over her initial shyness, she proved to be an eager student. There were questions about everything, and Nut, mindful of her fragile nature, maintained his patience. Every question was answered to the best of his ability, and he discovered that he rather liked teaching. Which wasn’t so strange, really. His family specialised in knowledge, peculiar knowledge, specific knowledge, and many of them became teachers at some point in their lives. Such was the legacy of Smart Cookie.

The shadows had grown long and as the afternoon stretched on, the midday heat gave way to cool, balmy breezes. Drowsy breezes, but Nut did not dare nap. There was just too much work to do… plus, there was a student to teach. Tater Blossom was smart; almost scarily so. He hardly had to repeat himself. Just offer simple instruction and she was ready to go. Her ability to retain knowledge was impressive, so much so that Nut knew that her talents would be wasted if she remained in Widowwood.

Why was this place called Widowwood?

He hadn’t asked.

There weren’t even that many trees.

Everything had been cleared away for crops.

“How does the hoof pedal for the camera work?” Tater Blossom asked.

“A piezoelectric effect happens when the pedal is depressed. The introduction of mechanical stress on the piezoelectric actuator creates a spark of electricity, which goes up the wire, and this causes the camera to activate. So when the pedal is pressed, a picture is taken.”

“Neat!”

“How does your mother feel about electricity?” he found himself asking.

“It’s evil,” his helper replied.

Irritated, Nut let out slow sigh.

“The backside-chomping vegetables come out at night, mostly. They’re real active then. But they’ll come after you if you bother them during the day. But I think they sleep during the day. Just don’t go near ‘em while they sleep, ‘cause they is grumpy. They wake up hangry.”

“They are grumpy,” Nut muttered.

“It’s neat that your suitcase becomes a table. A desk? I don’t know what it is, but it’s neat that it has legs that come out of it.”

“As a naturalist, I spend much of my time drawing and sketching what I see. I need a spot to work. Having a portable desk helps.”

“They look different, too.” Tater Blossom gestured at the field with her hoof, and wagged her head in the direction of danger. “I’ve snuck close enough to have a better look. The tater ones look like tater plants, but don’t. They’s different somehow, just not sure how to describe it. But I know tater plants, and these ain’t tater plants. These are booger-monster chewy-chompy veggies.”

“Oh heavens, booger-monster?” Looking off in the direction where his companion pointed, Nut tried to clarify the language used. “Did you mean boogeymonster?”

“No.” She planted all four hooves on the ground, and stood, resolute. “Booger-monster. They’s snotty as all get out. Mucus. Boogers. One of my brothers got covered in the stuff, and my older sister got it in her mane. It took forever to wash out.”

“Fascinating.”

“Not really. Just gross.”

“So, exceedingly sticky mucus you say?”

“Did I say that? I don’t recall saying that. I guess I mighta. They spit, is what they do. Or sneeze. It might be a sneeze. And hoo boy, can they aim. My brother says it stings in the eyes, and he had trouble breathing ‘cause it gunked up his nose. It’s super-gooey.”

Tater Blossom did not have a suitable vocabulary for science, but she did have an impressive command of her own dialect. His father had taught him not to judge ponies by how they spoke, and to not make assumptions about their intelligence. Tater Blossom had told him quite a lot, there was knowledge to be gleaned, but she’d done so in her own language, not his.

These creatures, whatever they might be, used weaponised mucus to hunt with. The mucus obscured vision, which suggested potential chemical irritants. It seemed as though they could aim, if obscured airways were any indication. If they could aim, this suggested stereoscopic vision, with forward-facing eyes, which might be an indicator of increased brain mass, if they had brains. Which seemed to be the case.

One could ask for worse assistants.

“Can you point one of them out for me?” he asked. “Susan and I will keep you safe.”

“Oh, sure. Follow me. Just don’t get snot on your eyeglass, it’s hard to wash off.”

Tater Blossom halted so suddenly that Nut almost bumped into her. She was a quick creature, quick to motion, quick to halt, and quick to think, from what little he knew of her. A smart filly, she did not belong in this place. In Canterlot, she would have been sorted into one of the many special schools for earth ponies with impressive cognitive abilities, he was certain of it. If not, a word from his parents or any of his family would most certainly do it, because one simply did not debate such requests from House Eccentrica.

One would suddenly find their school quite under-funded.

Or worse, one might find oneself looking for fresh employment.

“Over there,” she said, pointing. “See, that tater plant ain’t a tater plant.”

Nut found himself a bit confused, because all of the potato plants looked the same. He squinted, peering through his monocle, wondering if his farsightedness was working against him, but try as he might, he could not discern any differences. Moving closer to Tater Blossom, he leaned in almost neck to neck, and tried to peer down her foreleg to see where she pointed.

“Right there,” she said. “See, the leaves is veiny. And not like normal tater leaves. These are fat veins, like I have in my legs and in my body. See, look closer.”

“Well, I’ll be.” Sure enough, on closer inspection, he noticed the veins on the leaves. These were not fine spiderwebs of thin lines, but rounded veins, filled with liquid. If it wasn’t for Tater Blossom, he might not have noticed for quite some time. Sure, he would have eventually, but she had saved him hours of effort.

Yes, he decided. Tater Blossom was a smart earth pony, a cognitive variation.

Equestria had all manner of plants that were monsters, but only a few that had circulatory systems. While he was hesitant to jump to conclusions, this certainly narrowed down the long list of what he might be dealing with. While only a student on the beginning of his journey, Nut had dealt with all manner of Equestria’s megafauna and megaflora. He could only think of a few plants that had advanced circulatory systems, brains, eyes, and the ability to hunt.

None of them were friendly.

In general, plants didn’t need advanced bodies. They were plants. Simple creatures. But some plants had evolved with different needs in mind, and some were quite predatory. Some, like needler cacti, were mindless creatures who acted solely on instinct. When they sensed movement, or vibration, needles with powerful paralytics were released, and the cacti got what it needed for sustenance: a corpse that would soon be decomposing. Some predatory plants needed to consume magic in order to maintain their magicalness. Without concentrated quantities of magic, these plants shriveled up, and died. Such concentrations of magic could be found through predation of magical creatures.

Some plants had evolved powerful means to consume magical creatures, so that their magic could be sustained. It didn’t make sense, nor did it need to. Magic didn’t make sense. Not even Twilight Sparkle understood magic, which resisted all efforts to have its secrets studied. Magic, for whatever reason, did not wish to make its methods known, and in the study of magical creatures, one had to deal with this consistent unknown.

“Over there, that carrot ain’t no carrot. Same kinda leaves. And right there, just past those squash, those cabbages ain’t cabbages. Thems is something else. Watch out, the cabbages are extra mean.”

Everything she pointed to had similar characteristics; thick, veiny leaves.

At least he knew what to look for.

“No one back at the university is going to believe me,” he muttered to himself.

“Well, why not? Yer smart.”

“Tater,” he said to the filly right beside him, “being smart is not evidence. It isn’t proof. It helps, in some regard, but sometimes, even very smart ponies make mistakes, or come to the wrong conclusions. I do believe we’re dealing with trolls. In fact, I’d stake my reputation on it, but that is quite impossible. At least, from what we know of trolls. It’s a gut feeling, a hunch. But trolls are giants. Mutant trees, of a sort. And trolls… well, troll. But this—”

“How do trolls troll?”

“Well…” He paused, because it seemed as though class was in session. “Trolls troll. They look appealing, if possible, and lure creatures in. Some of them disguise themselves as things like apple trees, for example. And when a creature goes in to pick an apple, the troll attacks, coming up from the ground, and gobbling up its unsuspecting prey.”

“Boy howdy, I wonder what Mama would say about that.”

Raising Susan, Nut crept closer, knowing that trolls were sensitive to vibrations. He’d studied trolls already, and had even battled a few. While he did not consider himself a wizard, or even a warrior—he was a scholar to the bone—he was no slouch, no easy meal. Just how ferocious these troll vegetables were remained to be seen.

“I’m havin’ the time of my life,” Tater Blossom said to Nut. “I gots somepony to learn stuff with, and I’m not being hollered at for bein’ smart.”

With Susan held in front of him, Nut sighed. What did the world have against smart mares and fillies, anyhow? His mother and father got along fine. But then again, they were cousins, and had been raised together. Their marriage had been decided at an early age, and neither of them objected to it. They were best friends, playmates, and in House Eccentrica, brains were the only thing that mattered.

For the first time, Nut considered the possibility that his family might be weird.

Quite suddenly, and without warning, a potato plant popped up out of the black dirt like a cork. Just as fast, as if by pure instinct, Nut unfurled Susan, who sprang open. Her inner-lining of chainmail mesh glittered, and there was a metallic jangle as something solid and heavy bounced off from the other side. Then, everything went silent.

Cautiously, he peered around the edge of Susan, and saw nothing.

The potato troll, if it was, indeed, a troll, was back in the ground, but in a different location. It’s previous location was a hole in the ground, and within that hole, Nut spotted debris, bits of bone and hair, the uneaten remains of prey. A garden, or an enormous farm in this instance, would be an ideal place for a small ambush predator. Rabbits, mice, voles, moles, vermin, bugs, even birds—all edible. And posing as a potato plant, these garden pests would come right up to take a nibble.

Nut closed Susan, but remained at the ready.

“Miss Blossom, let us back away, for now, and think of a better way to go about this.”

Author's Note

So, this story started back in about 2016. I worked on it a bit here and there, but was busy with other stuff. In fact, with this posted chapter, which has been cleaned up and edited a fair bit, I'm almost certain that you can see the place where my writing style changed (and perhaps improved) significantly. This was going to be a much longer story, and Nut was meant to be an important background character, one who would appear in The Underwatch.

But I got busy with other things. Significant sections of this story were scripted though, framed.

I needed some me time, a time to recharge my writing batteries, which happens ever-so-often. A time when I work on projects that mean a lot to me. Like when I wrote An Afternoon in Ponyville. Every now and then, I gotta top off my creative batteries, so I don't burn out. Writing is about pacing. Writing and producing content every day is hard. And even if I don't post a chapter, I am still writing, still producing, as evidenced by my postings on the Discord. Just about the only time I cease working completely is when I am too sick, and I am on the verge of death. Like, say, when I have a necrotic infection and I'm oozing black rot.

This was going to be a one shot, but then I started editing, and cleaning up, and there was a lot for just one chapter. I don't really expect people to 'get' this story, and that's fine. I'm doing this for me. So, thank you, dear reader, for indulging me as I play with electrons.

If for some reason this story becomes a smash success, which I doubt, we can talk about expanding it. But let's be honest. It won't. I expect this to go largely unnoticed, uncommented upon, and to have terrible numbers. It's very ignorable, I assure you. But, it feels good to get it out, even if it only happens to be a mere shadow of what I intended.

If you've read through this whole author's note, which has turned into a ramble, thank you. Yes, you. You make this worth it. We can share in this joy together.

Thank you.

Chapter 2

Hickory Wainwright was not the sort of pony that Nut expected in this sort of place, though to be both fair and honest, he wasn’t sure just what sort of pony he expected. Such a thing suggested bias on his part, and Nut didn’t much care for bias. He’d met Hickory during supper, and the gravel-voiced stallion had said a quiet prayer to Almighty Celestia before the meal was served.

Supper had been quite pleasant, actually.

But now, Hickory was just a few yards away, with his daughter, Tater Blossom, standing just behind him. He wasn’t big and strong, far from it, he was lean and wiry. His eyes, rather smallish, held a secretive, fiery intelligence, so much so that Nut suspected that Tater Blossom took after her father.

During supper, Tater Blossom had asked if she could be Nut’s assistant tonight.

So now, Hickory Wainwright was here and Nut found himself being scrutinised. Which was fine, really. Though the incident had caused some upset, Nut was hopeful that everything might yet be smoothed out. He rather liked Tater Blossom’s company, and not for nefarious, untoward reasons. She was a keen filly with a quick, clever mind.

“So, tell me,” Hickory began, his demeanour gruff but not mean nor overbearing. “Do you think my daughter is smart?”

What an unexpected question. Nut did not answer right away, and was somewhat distracted by Tater Blossom peeking out from behind her father. They were quite a bit alike, these two. Both were a ruddy red colour, of nonstandard earth pony build, and both shared a great many traits. Though Hickory did not strike Nut as a curious sort, but rather, a cautious sort. Tater Blossom was a curious sort, and in Nut’s experience, that was rather rare in ponies. It was a trait most found undesirable, and was conditioned out through some means or another.

“I do, actually.” Nut tried to keep his body posture relaxed and this tone neutral.

“That upsets the wife,” Hickory remarked.

“Oh? Does it? I’m dreadfully sorry about that—”

“Cut it,” Hickory said, interrupting. “Don’t apologise for being forthright. That upsets me.”

Nut almost apologised, but held his tongue.

“Am I to understand that you think my daughter is smart enough to help you?”

“Why, yes,” Nut replied right away.

Something about Hickory seemed relieved. “You’re probably smart enough to have gathered that I’m a protective father. My daughter, she’s about that age. And my daughter, foolish filly that she is, asked if she could spend a night in the field with a stranger just come to town. Naturally, this quite upset her mother. We both know why.”

Now was a good time to remain silent, Nut figured.

“I’m not so quick to judge, though. Ponies call me slow, but I think you know that is not the case. I just don’t say much. I don’t suffer or abide fools. Me, I’m the type that works from the hour before sun up, and all throughout the day, until the work is finished. And my work is currently unfinished. I came out here to find out your intentions about my daughter. If I understand right, you’re some sort of noble.”

“That I am,” Nut was quick to say.

“Give me your word as a noble that my daughter will be safe in your care, and will see the dawn, untouched. Unsullied.”

“Sir, I must say, most nobles are terrible—”

“I don’t care about them,” Hickory retorted, his wiry muscles bunching. “Just you. You care about these things, I gather. Or am I wrong?”

“Well, there is a certain amount of concern, yes.”

“So then, Lord Nut, yer word.”

“Well, how can anypony take me seriously if I am ‘Lord Nut’? Just Nut will do.”

Hickory rumbled like a perturbed bear, just come out of hibernation.

“I assure you, I have no ill-intentions about your daughter, good sir. You have my word as a noble.”

“That’s what I thought.” Hickory almost smiled, but his face was too stern to commit to it completely. “I’m a pony that lives by my gut. A wainwright by trade, I make the most perfect, most flawless wagon wheels. And everything I do is by eyeball and gut. I told my wife that my gut said that you were alright. That you were an upstanding feller. Don’t prove me wrong.”

Swallowing, Nut nodded.

“Tater…”

“Yeah, Pa?”

“Do right by the gentlepony, Tater, and he’ll do right by you.”

“Right, Pa.”

“Almighty Celestia’s blessings upon you, Lord Nut. If you get bit or chewed up, send Tater. She’s the fastest critter on four legs in these parts, and I take no small amount of near-sinful pride in that. Faster than greasy goose droppings shooting out a goose’s caboose. Stay safe, and have a pleasant night.”

“Why, thank you, sir.”

“Thank you, Daddy.”

“You only call me Daddy when you want something, Blossom, and you already got what yer after. I’m gonna go back to the house now. Make the most of this night, Tater. I stuck my neck out for you. Yer Ma’ll be giving me a funny look for the next week.”

“Good night, Pa.”

“Nighty night, little Tater Blossom.”

After a kiss from his daughter, Hickory Wainwright departed, and Nut found himself alone with Tater Blossom.

The moon rose, glorious and full, and its light would be a boon this even. Nut had already set up a place to watch atop the water tower and everything was good to go. He even had an assistant, something he found that he’d never really needed before, but he found the idea appealing. Miss Blossom was bright, curious, and eager.

At the moment, she was craning her head back, looking up at the stars, and something told him that she didn’t get to do this often. The moonlight, all soft, silver hues, cast her in quite a different light. She was beautiful in ways that all things bathed in moonlight were beautiful. He found himself quite intrigued by her—but not in a shameful way.

“I told my Ma, how am I s’posed to marry somepony if’n you won’t let me meet nopony and go on dates,” she said to Nut, all while looking upward at the glorious night sky.

Hearing this, Nut suffered a sinking feeling in his gut.

“Not that I wanna get married,” she continued, “and that’s my problem. All my older sisters, they was married by my age. I’m the odd one out. No cutie mark, no feller, no prospects, no nothin’. It gives my Ma fits, it does. Marriage scares me. I’ve seen what it does to my sisters, being preggers all the time. Saw what it’s done to my Mama. She told me that I’d find beauty and meanin’ in all that suffering, that’d be wunnerful and all majestic, ‘cause it’s Celestia’s will. But it scares me powerful bad. So my Ma, she got all hopeful like when I showed a little interest in you, and that’s why she relented when my Pa gave her a talkin’ to.”

At a loss for words, Nut was uncertain of what to say.

“Is it wrong to hope for something more in life?” she asked. “Sometimes, I pray to Celestia that it be her will that something better comes along. Ma says my prayers is foolish. The best I could possibly have is already right here, right in front of me.”

“We should always aspire to be better,” Nut said to his companion. “Celestia wants us to be the very best ponies we can be. I know her, and I know this to be true.” He wanted to say more, he wanted to say to Tater Blossom that her mother was wrong, but he didn’t. Saying that she was wrong was meaningless; showing Tater Blossom that her mother was wrong was the right way to go…

But how?

“It’s all so pretty.” Standing on three legs, she gestured upward with the fourth. “Mama calls the night the wicked hours, and so I ain’t allowed to be out much. I’ve been sneakin’ out lately, so I can have me a look. If the stars and moon be evil, like Mama says, then why did Celestia keep them all in order while Luna was gone? I said that to my Ma, I did, and I got me a hidin’ for being smart-mouthed. I couldn’t sit right for a week.”

Unsure of what to say, Nut stuck with what he knew. Gesturing at the water tower, he said, “I’ve set up a place for observation, so we can watch them and study their behaviour without disturbing them. See, that’s the trick. A naturalist tries to observe without interfering. Even if it means causing suffering. Miss Blossom, you might watch a rabbit die this night. Do try to be brave, will you?”

“You don’t stop that from happening?” she asked.

“If I did, I’d be a poor naturalist,” he replied. “Sometimes, I am stuck observing. As much as I want to save good creatures from harm, I can’t. Doing so would upset the balance. I can’t interfere. Sometimes, I have to allow bad things to happen, for the sake of understanding. Such is the price a naturalist pays.”

“So what is the plan for tonight?” she asked.

“We watch and observe,” he replied. “Up there, on top of the water tower. We’ll have a bird’s eye view of everything. I’m farsighted, which is actually quite a boon in my line of work.”

“I’m not a pegasus, Mister Nut. How am I s’posed to get up there?”

“Just Nut, if you please.” He smiled, hoping to reassure her before even making his response. “With magic, of course. I am, after all, a unicorn.”

“Mama says that all magic is sinful and wicked. She says that only Almighty Celestia can be trusted with it, and that everypony else will succumb to temptation from it, like her sister. She allows our unicorn hires to use magic, ‘cause it’s useful, but she’s always goin’ on ‘bout the dangers. I think that sometimes, they get fed up with her. Not many stay.”

Nut sighed. He wanted to refute this, but the truth was, magic did, in fact, lead many astray. Plus, just saying it wasn’t so didn’t make it so. No, somehow, he had to show Tater Blossom magic that was utterly harmless, innocuous, some means of proof. She was looking at him now, and not at the stars above. The moon glittered in her eyes and her mouth was wide with an unrestrained smile.

He had an idea.

Nut had a terrible, wonderful, amazing, dreadful idea.

“Care for a candy, Miss?”

“Pa says I shouldn’t take candy from strangers,” she replied, almost teasing.

“Miss, I assure you, I’m no mustache-twirling villain. Why, I don’t even have a mustache. I can’t grow one. Which is a pity, really. When I was a colt, I wanted to grow a massive mustache, so my mother would have fits. But I fear I turned out rather plain and boring of face.”

“You’d look silly with a mustache, Mister Nut.”

He turned the full brunt of his leaden, deadpan expression upon her, to no effect.

She bubbled with laughter, a most wonderful sound, and Nut fetched his satchel. From within, he drew out a small candy wrapped in wax paper, a gift from dear Aunt Sprout, his mother’s sister. It could be said that Sprout was the funny one, while Clove was the serious sibling. Sprout had a Doctorate in Assistive Magical Applications, and was forever turning mundane objects into fantastical devices.

Candies were just one such thing.

“Raspberry taffy, Miss?”

“Oh, I love raspberries. I don’t know if I should…”

“Well, why not?” asked Nut. “As stated, I am not a mustache-twirling villain. Your father trusted me with your safety.”

“Mister Nut, sugar gives me the sillies.”

Determined to make a point, he unwrapped the candy and held it up, mere inches away from her nose. She almost went cross eyed trying to look at it, and he waved it back and forth, side to side, and Nut found himself wondering just what it was that he was doing, trying to tempt a filly with candy.

Perhaps it was for the best that he couldn’t grow a mustache.

With a quick, sudden movement, her mouth opened, her tongue coiled around the candy, and with a slurp, it was gone. Nut waited, thinking about tweed, and pocketwatches, and fine linens with freshly ironed creases, for these were good, wholesome things to occupy his thoughts with. Never one to litter, he vanished the wax paper wrapper back into his satchel.

As expected, there was a raspberry. And not just any raspberry, but an absolutely ridiculous raspberry of the wet, flappy variety, a crass, crude, vulgar sound. When he was a foal, these raspberry taffies offered him endless amusement, and caused his mother to squabble with her sister. Accusations of corrupting youth were flung about willy-nilly, all while impossible to ignore raspberries reverberated throughout the family home.

Those were fond memories of pleasant days long past.

When Tater Blossom bit down again, there was another crepitatious outburst. Chewing upon said taffy was very much like chewing on a whoopie cushion. With every chomp, chew, every bite committed, there was a fantastically vulgar outcome, a rude noise to accompany one’s efforts. Nut’s expression remained delightfully deadpan, and he stood rigid, as if he’d been carefully starched.

“Now tell me, Miss, what evil is there to be had in that candy? This might not be the pinnacle of unicorn magical artistry, but it is a rousing bit of fun, is it not?”

In response, she bit down with all of her earth pony strength, and there was a terrific raspberry, which pealed riotously though the dark, sacred night. Nut stood waiting, thoroughly enjoying himself and this moment. While fun, it was his hope, his desire that she learnt something from this, that she would remember this, that she might see the application of magic for what it was. It almost made him wish that he’d studied more of the wizardly arts, just so that he might be a better teacher in this moment.

He was young, there was still time for him to improve.

“We mustn’t fear what we fail to understand,” Nut said to the filly in his company. “We should be intrigued by the unknown, and the best of us rush to understand it. We must be curious and inquire about all things mysterious. The best of us venture off to explore the world. There is a whole, wide world to see, filled with endless wonders, and if we make the assumption that everything is evil, unwholesome, and impure, we’ll become dullards.

“Your mother says that you should not leave town, as if this is a refuge, but stop and think for a moment, Miss. At some point, this town did not exist. Somepony left home, ventured out into the world, searched for a time, and settled here, in this place. Why? Who knows. Something about this place intrigued them.”

It sounded as though a pony stomped in squelchy mud and the filly giggled

“Now, the mare that made that candy you’re eating, she’s my aunt. She’s the most well-meaning, vivacious, well-mannered enchantress one could ever meet. My Aunt Sprout, she makes books that read themselves to the blind. She makes slates that scribe words so the deaf can read what has been said to them. My aunt has devoted the entirety of her life to helping those who cannot help themselves, and I daresay that she would be quite offended by your mother’s assertions that magic is evil, or somehow impure. The application of magic is neutral, ‘tis the intent when good and evil become relevant.”

He gestured at the water tower, smiled, and said, “I am going to enchant your hooves, young Miss. You may feel a slight ticklish sensation, and for that, I do apologise. This enchantment will allow you walk right up the side of the structure, and I assure you, you will not fall. You will be quite safe. I give you my word. Now, do I have your permission to cast a spell upon you?”

Now situated atop the water tower, Nut watched the fields below. Tater Blossom sat upon the sloped roof beside him, quiet, thoughtful, and wearing a smile that stretched from ear to ear. She wasn’t paying much attention to the fields, no, rather, her focus was on whatever happened to be of interest at any given moment. Moths, twinkling stars, hooting owls, whippoorwills, passing bats, and every other sacred wonder of the night, of which there were many.

Nut found her quite remarkable. Fearless, she hadn’t hesitated in the slightest, and she scrambled right up the creaky, somewhat rusty metal frame that supported the water tower. There was no coaxing, no cajoling, she was eager to experience and try something new. Her appreciation for life and living was infectious, and Nut found himself cherishing her company more and more.

“You know, Luna,” he remarked rather flippantly, “things would be so much easier to observe if you could see fit to make your moon shine just a little bit brighter. You know, turn up the light just a bit. How’s a naturalist supposed to work in the dark?”

Much to his amazement, the moon did in fact, shine a fair bit brighter. Somewhat astonished, he dismissed it as coincidence, but a powerful coincidence that delighted the senses. Silver light poured down, illuminating the fields, bathing everything in a faintly metallic white hue. As he sat there, marvelling at the remarkable happenstance, Tater Blossom clutched his leg.

“Did… did that just happen? Did Luna just answer a prayer?”

“Well,” he replied, uncertain, “something happened, but what exactly is unknown. It might be coincidence. I could very well have said something at an opportune time, and the phenomenon that we’re both observing might have coincided at a serendipitous moment.”

“Luna just answered a prayer,” Tater Blossom said.

“Well, let us not jump to hasty conclusions.”

“But you said something, and then this happened.”

“Indeed, that seems to be the case, but if you rush to conclusions, you make a mess of things. This is how religions happen. Happenstance is exploited, happy accidents are given meaning, and in the off-chance it happens again, it is taken as a sign, as proof, and if enough coincidences happen to happen all at once, it gives credence to imaginary notions that appear to be true. If I tell you that Luna causes cobwebs to happen, and cobwebs do in fact happen, due to neglectful housekeeping practices, this does not make Luna the Mistress of Cobwebs. It means the maid needs to be spoken to over tea and biscuits. Politely. But firmly.”

“Luna was listening. I knew it. My mother was wrong.”

Sighing, Nut kept his keen eyes focused on the fields below. It was far easier to see now, and he spotted the creatures of the night prowling between the rows. What a remarkable coincidence had taken place. Surely, it meant nothing. Why, he’d made off the cuff comments countless times, an untold number of times—but this time, Luna had answered. Was it to prove something to Tater Blossom? The very idea was ludicrous, and he found himself in danger of putting faith into the very thing he ridiculed. This was an assault upon his rationality.

So far, there were no signs of activity below, but the night was young. The moon wasn’t even overhead yet, it still had a ways to go. With Tater Blossom still clinging to him, Nut thought of trolls. Amazing creatures, trolls. Could sleep the day away, and gain energy from photosynthesis whilst they slumbered. Passive energy gain during slumber gave them an advantage, and an impressive one at that.

Plants changed, they adapted and evolved quite rapidly, which made them great specimens for study. In areas that were rich in magic, plants evolved all manner of adaptations, new ways to go about living and propagating themselves. But magic had ebb and flow. It changed. A high magic area might fade over time, and the plants that had evolved in that niche would either change, adapt, or die out as the magic faded.

Trolls might very well have adapted in a high magic environment, and as the magic faded, if this was the case, the trolls may have turned to the predation of magical creatures to keep themselves alive. It was one possibility among many. But these trolls, if these were, indeed, trolls, lived in a garden. They weren’t apex predators, eating ponies and magical fauna rich in thaumaturgical energy.

But they did live in the ground and soak up sunlight.

With such small bodies, they wouldn’t need a lot of magic to sustain themselves, just whatever magic could be had from sun and soil. Of course, all of this was speculation, guesswork. But this is rather what he did, and Nut was quite good at figuring these things out. His guesses, his hunches, were true more often than not. Coincidence? Luck? Some means, some manner of magical influence that fueled his hunches?

Maybe he was just smart; he couldn’t discount that possibility.

“Look, Mister Nut. Over there!”

Before he could respond, Tater Blossom turned his head for him, and he found himself looking down at a section of cabbages bathed in brilliant moonlight. Only, one of the cabbages was up and about. There was a rooty body beneath the leafy head. Little legs and arms were visible. His keen eyes allowed him to see details that might not otherwise be noticeable at such a distance, and he never felt that his farsightedness was a detriment.

The odd cabbage creature was stalking between the rows of beans, perhaps creeping up on something. Nut strained to see, his eyes searched for what the carnivorous cabbage might be after. Eventually, he noticed a rabbit, its eyes reflecting red in the moonlight. But the cabbage did not pounce. It was close, quite close, and as Nut sat there watching, waiting for something to happen…

Gooey ribbons of liquid gleamed in the moonlight and there was an audible splat that could be heard even at the top of the water tower. The rabbit was suddenly covered in a glistening glob of gunk, a slipcover of snot. Blinded, perhaps unable to breathe, coated in slime, the rabbit was now easy prey… and the cabbage moved in for the kill.

“No…” Tater Blossom whispered. “Poor thing.”

After a few squeaks and a bit of thrashing, it was over. The cabbage planted itself and pulled the mucus-soaked rabbit carcass beneath the soil. Nut lifted up his notebook and began to scribble down notes of what he’d just witnessed. He also made a mental note of the location, so that he might go and have a better look come morning.

“Well”—Tater Blossom’s eyes were wide and her voice low—“that was something. I thought I’d be more upset than I am, but I’m not. I mean, I don’t cry when a bunny eats a cabbage, so why should I get bent out of shape when a cabbage eats a bunny? It’s kinda gross, but kinda not.”

“Are you okay, Miss?”

“I’m fine, Mister Nut. Finer than I thought I’d be. So this is what you study?”

“Yes.” Holding out his hoof, he gestured at the crops below. “This is my livelihood.”

“You get paid for this?”

“A little.” He shrugged. “Sometimes. It isn’t about payment, it is about betterment. I do this because it is necessary. The world exists to be understood.”

“Huh.” Tater Blossom pulled away, leaned forward, and peered down over the edge of the water tower’s roof. “Mama’s not one for understanding much, and Pa, he’s not either. Me though, I’m always asking questions. I wanna learn stuff in school. Real stuff. Not stuff about the Way of Almighty Celestia. Mama says I need to buck up and start learning about housework, and chores, and farmin’, and foalin’, ‘cause these are all the things expected of me… but these aren’t the things I want.”

“Well, tell your mother that.”

“I have.” Her eyes narrowed, almost closing. “When I do, I gets me a hidin’. I’ve learned to shut up about it and not say nothing. I can’t tell my parents they is wrong or that I don’t want what they want, or that I have hopes and dreams of things I want for myself. If I make a fuss about it, they just beat it out of me. Say it’s for my own good. They tell me that the sooner I get these fool notions out of my head, the happier I’ll be. I was startin’ to wonder if they was right… and now you’re here, and I’m sitting up on this roof, and I gots all these ideas that I don’t wanna let go of.”

“So don’t,” he said, unsure of what else to say. “Hold on to those ideas.”

“But that’ll just get me whipped. I’m tired of that. It’s easier to just go along with things.”

Sometimes, the world didn’t feel like a very fair place, and this bothered Nut more than he let on. Was this why he tended to avoid ponies? Why he retreated off into study? He had a hard time reconciling the fact that there were ponies who would punish others for thinking. As a foal, he had the opposite problem—he’d be taken to task for intellectual laziness and not thinking enough. It was expected, demanded. If he showed any signs of mental or intellectual laziness at all, his life was made into a miserable Tartarus from which there was no escape.

But he was free to go his own way, to find his own field of study. He wasn’t told what to think, or how to think, only that he had to think. If he wanted to explore some new field of interest, he only had to ask. His parents had even indulged him in subjects they didn’t care much for, or had little interest in. Frustrated, he wasn’t sure how to help Tater Blossom; her parents were determined to make her conform.

“Look,” she said in a quiet, meek voice, “the carrots have formed a hunting party.”

When he turned to look where his assistant was pointing, he saw the aforementioned hunting party. Carrots, prowling about on tiny carroty legs, working together as a group. This was… alarming. Trolls did not cooperate. Yet, these carrots seemed to be cooperative carrots. Cooperative carnivorous carrots. Oh, this was quite alarming.

He was up on his hooves in a moment, and behind his camera. He peered through the viewfinder, uncertain if he had adequate light, but maybe the moon would see fit to be helpful. Unsure of how they would develop, he took a few pictures. Why not? The camera had been hauled up here atop the tower. The lighting seemed fair. Perhaps he’d have something to work with. Film was limited though, and he wanted to save it for the daytime, when he’d captured a few specimens.

“This is the most amazing night ever, and I don’t want it to end.”

Never in his life had Nut heard a pony so sad and hopeful at the same time. It pained him. With his eye still pressed to the viewfinder, he watched as the carrots marched in a disorganised line in search of prey. Multitasking, he began scribbling down notes in his notebook, making careful mention of the tactics the carrots were employing.

“Can’t you do something?” he asked.

“Something? Like what?”

“Struggle. Resist. Fight back.”

“And have my hide tanned? I like sitting down. As it is, I have to pick my battles. And lately, it seems, I’ve been pickin’ ‘em less and less. I’m tired and worn out from the fighting. What else can I do?”

Much to his disappointment, Nut didn’t have a suitable answer. Was he disappointed with himself, or life in general? He could deal with alleyway ruffians and all manner of dangerous wildlife, but this… he had no idea how to deal with this. He’d been raised to be noble, to act noble, to think noble, to be good and virtuous in his every action, word, and deed. But there had been no lessons about this, neither in the classroom nor at home.

The carrots, working together, made a kill. A second rabbit met its end this night, and Nut barely noticed. Armed with sticky mucus and cunning, the carrots laid the lagomorph low. Before the body was even done twitching, the carrots buried themselves and their prey so they could feast. Nut made notes, but his heart wasn’t in it.

“Pinkie Pie is my favourite Element,” Tater Blossom said. “I gots me a book about her. My Pa got it and it’s the only book I have that isn’t about the Almighty Celestia and her Way. Might just be the best book ever and I’ve read it to tatters. Tell me, Mister Nut, do you have an Element that you favour?”

Pulling his eye away from the camera viewfinder, he considered the question for a time before saying, “Well, I haven’t given it much thought. Pinkie Pie, you say?”

“The Element of Laughter. The book makes me happy. I just like reading something that isn’t about the Way of Almighty Celestia. The town’s library is full of those books, and so is the school, and I think my book about Pinkie might just be the only one like it in town.”

He thought of Twilight Sparkle, the Element of Magic, but was unsure if he favoured her. As he thought about Twilight, he found himself wondering what Tater Blossom’s mother thought of the Princess of Friendship, but he didn’t feel like asking, suspecting that he would find the answer disappointing.

“In the book, Pinkie has a great love for her sisters, and I do too. And my brothers, too, I s’pose. Even if I don’t understand them or get along with them. But I understand how important they are, so I can relate to how Pinkie feels.”

Rarity. He knew Rarity. Why, he’d frequented her business more than a few times. Rarity had the most exotic and luxurious tweeds in all of Canterlot. He felt no particular connection with Rarity, nor did he hold her up as a model for his behaviour. Why hadn’t he thought of this before? Did he not have an Element that he favoured?

That seemed to be the case.

Nut found that he had trouble remembering all of the Elements. He was drawing a blank after Twilight and Rarity, and the aforementioned Pinkie Pie. The list was rather lacking, he felt. Raven should be an Element, the Element of Organisation. Who didn’t love a jolly good bit of scheduling? One could even pencil in time to be spontaneous, if one felt particularly rebellious. But with pencil, not ink, so the evidence of squirrelly behaviour could be erased should one come to their senses before doing something rash.

Rash behaviour might lead to a curious monniker and nopony wanted that.

Did they?

There needed to be an Element of What For. That would require a generous pony, because What For had to be given, and freely. The funny thing about What For was, the more of it that one gave away, the more one had to give. Alleyway ruffians had severe need of it, and other ponies as well. Nut found himself looking right at Tater Blossom and thinking of a few worthy recipients in dire need of What For and possibly even Pip-Pip What’s All This Then, which would also make for a fantastic Element.

“So I guess you go on adventures then? Like Pinkie and her friends?”

“Yes, yes I do.”

“And you face danger? Without friends? All alone?”

“Miss, I’m a tough Nut to crack.”

“Mmm.” Tater Blossom bit her bottom lip and held out her hoof. Then, spitting out her lip with a wet pop, she said, “No. That’s awful. Please, don’t do that.”

Thinking fond thoughts, Nut wore a gentle half-smile that was too polite to be a smirk.

“Who saves you if you get into trouble?”

“Susan,” Nut was quick to say.

“Do you have friends other than Susan?”

“Of course,” he replied. “But they stay in the city, like sensible ponies. Me, I’m a Nut. I go into dangerous places, and occasionally, small farming communities. When I burst into a room and announce that I’m looking for like-minded companions to help me study the breeding habits of the Common Equestrian Hydra, I find that ponies just disappear, as if by magic. They sing, you know.”

“Who sings? The ponies running away from you?”

“The hydras. They do more than sing. They harmonise with themselves. Having all those heads and long throats is a desirous advantage. The male croons to woo the female, he sings a rousing song to profess his love and desire, and after singing to his potential mate, it’s time for dinner and a date.”

“Dinner and a date?”

“Yes. The female hydra, being bigger and stronger, rips off a head or two and devours them. Not to worry, she always leaves the male with at least a head. After a delightful bit of dinner, they go off together to make more little hydras. Off to continue the species. It really is rather romantic, though I’m not certain I’d wish to engage in these foreplay behaviours myself. I’m rather attached to my head, and there is only one of it.”

“That… that’s something, Mister Nut.”

“Hydras might very well have evolved regenerating heads and necks specifically for breeding purposes. Males had to find some way to survive. In nature, there are many examples of males eaten by females as a successful breeding strategy. It’s a controversial theory, and I find myself rather enamoured with it. One of my professors pioneered the theory. Ponies think he’s a crackpot.”

“Do ponies think yer a crackpot?”

He shrugged. “If they didn’t, then I, not trying nearly as much as I should be, and my father—no, my whole family would be ashamed of me. We have a long tradition of being weird. Strange. Kooks. Miss Blossom, it’s fine to be different. I’m sorry that your circumstances do not allow you to be so. Conformity is an unpleasant state of affairs.”

Pulling his pocketwatch out of his waistcoat pocket, Nut saw that the time neared a quarter past midnight. Tater Blossom had endured for quite some time, but come about the second tenth hour, when the moon was high and the night was dark, he knew by her yawns that she was done for. But she lasted far longer than he thought she would.

She lay with her head resting upon her folded forelegs, lost in peaceful dreams, at least he hoped that she was lost in peaceful dreams. The night was warm, a bit balmy, and the breeze blew in from the south. He looked at his pocketwatch, at his parents, as if seeking their approval. His parents… his parents had not told him that the world was wrong, and full of sin. No, his parents had told him that the world was dangerous, and full of mystery. The mystery of this, and that, and oh-my-goodness-would-you-have-a-look-at-that-right-over-there! His parents had told him that the nobles had stumbled a bit, that their good name had been tarnished ever-so-slightly, and that he had to work extra-hard to make up for those who didn’t work at all. Of course it wasn’t fair, but that was how things were.

As he shut his pocketwatch with the click of fine brass, Nut sniggered a bit. He planned to leave young Miss Blossom up here atop the water tower. She would have an amusing moment come morning when she woke and he would get to play at acting as her rescuer. It would be gentle, sensible, harmless fun.

Much to his surprise, he himself yawned. Work wasn’t done though. He had a bit more work to do, work on the ground. There was also the matter of procuring a live specimen. Oh, not to keep, or to cut up, he wasn’t much of a vivisectionist, but he did want to make a good sketch of one. Though, which one? They came in several varieties. A whole stew’s worth of garden trolls, if that was indeed what they were. Tonight had revealed some startling new behaviours, worrying behaviours, as nopony Nut knew wanted trolls to develop a cooperative advantage.

“You there.” It felt crazy saying it, yet here he was, doing it, even as he was quite upset by the practices of others. “Yes you. That was quite a thing you did with the moon, earlier. I doubt you’re listening, as I’m but one pony that is quite unworthy of your attention. The nights are no doubt busy and you probably have a lot to do. But thank you, nonetheless, for that little moment with your moon. That was boxing clever, getting Tater Blossom’s attention in that matter.”

Things felt unsaid. Was he so swayed by what amounted to simple coincidence?

“I’ve spoken to you for quite some time, which is quite foolish, really. I mean, I know you in-pony. You attended my cute-ceañera. When I worked as a page, you pulled me aside and sorted me out when I was frazzled. When ponies mention you as the Dark One, or some such nonsense, I get a bit put out. I mean, I am speaking to you right now, and this is the very definition of delusion. It feels as though I should know better. Why am I engaging in this frivolous activity? For that matter, why do I expect an answer? I’d rather hoped that I could infect young Miss Blossom’s thinking with a bit of rationality, yet here I am, talking to the moon. What is to be done with me?”

Shaking his head, he stepped over the edge of the water tower, and plummeted to the ground below. His fall lasted for mere seconds, until he slowed, and drifted the rest of the way down like a feather, or a falling leaf of autumn. It was a neat trick, a simple trick, but what a delightful trick it was, and goodness, how it kept him safe.

“Keep me company, will you, Luna? There is still much to do. I could use a bit more light.”

Author's Note

Alas, poor Nut. So confused. He doesn't know nearly as much as he thinks he does.

But he does know What For...

Chapter 3

“Mister Nut! Oh, Mister Nut! Ya gotta get me down from up here! Please? Pretty please?”

Grinning from ear to ear, Nut listened to the sound of hooves banging against the tin roof of the water tower and enjoyed a bit of quiet satisfaction. He would get Tater Blossom down from there… eventually. But right now, this was rather amusing and he was in no hurry for it to end. She was a brave one, walking right up to the very edge and peering over. Of course, if she slipped or fell, he would rescue her.

“This ain’t funny no more,” she called out. “How do I get down from here? What about breakfast? And other… stuff… that I can’t mention. Mister Nut, how do I get down? Mister Nut?”

With just a bit of magic, Nut’s tweed waistcoat was made fresh and clean. It needed pressing still, but that would have to wait for a return to civilisation. He combed his mane, made himself presentable, and wondered what breakfast might be. There’d been no instructions to come to the house for breakfast, and he wasn’t entirely certain it would be brought out for him and Miss Blossom.

“Oh, Mister Nut, please!”

“Now there’s a sight you don’t see every day.”

The sound of Hickory’s voice made Nut turn about rather suddenly, and he was quick to dispose of his grin, such as it was. Hickory was looking up at his daughter, squinting, and shaking his head from side to side. Nut saw a picnic basket on the ground, and was eager to find out what was for breakfast, but worried that he might need to explain his joke.

“Pa, help!”

“Tater, how’d you get up there?” Hickory asked with a squinty bit of curious awe.

“Go on, Miss Blossom, tell your father how you got up there.” Relieved by Hickory’s calm, curious inquiry, Nut allowed himself a good, sensible chortle.

Tater Blossom’s expression soured, and she fumed as she stared down. “Do I gotta?”

“Well, I’d like to know how you got up there,” Hickory said to his daughter.

“I walked.”

“You walked?”

“Ya, I did, Pa. I walked myself up here, but I can’t seem to walk back down.”

“She walked up there?” Hickory, now rather amused, turned his body to face Nut. “Actually, that’s a good place for my little Tater. She’s not locked away in a tower, but stuck on top of a tower is just as good.”

“Daddy, you ain’t funny!”

“I think I like this arrangement—”

“Daddy!”

“Ain’t gotta worry ‘bout colts—”

“Daddy!”

“Don’t have to worry ‘bout you sneakin’ out of the house—”

“Daddy, stop that! It ain’t funny! You ain’t funny! Ain’t nuttin’ funny ‘bout this in the slightest!”

“You and yer Ma won’t fight so much—”

“Daddy, please!”

Hickory gestured upwards at his daughter. “Lord Nut, I owe you a hearty and heartfelt thanks. Every father wants their daughter safe. You’ve granted me my wish.”

“Just Nut.”

From atop the tower, Tater Blossom snorted and whinnied, all while tossing her head about. After raising quite a ruckus, she said, “It’s so nice to see you all friendly, brought together by my entrapment. Now get me down!”

“I have other daughters, young ones. Think you could help me stash them on top of the other towers ‘round these parts?”

“Daddy, so help me, get me down!”

“Anything is possible, for a price,” Nut replied.

Hickory, his eyes bright and merry, had himself a good chuckle. “See, I had a good feeling in my gut about you, Nut. I came by before dawn to check up on you. I found you asleep, but there was no sign of Tater, so I figured she went back up to the house. Her Ma said that she’d want to sleep in her own bed. So, tell me, Nut, was she a good helper? Did she actually help?”

“I’m still up here. Is that breakfast? I’m powerful hungry!”

“Oh, she was a tremendous help,” Nut replied, honest as ever. “She’s keen-eyed.”

“Aye, she gets that from me, I think.” Ears pricked, Hickory radiated paternal pride while ignoring his daughter’s distress. The wiry earth pony sidestepped away, then backwards, and casting a sidelong glance at Nut’s journals, had himself a quick look at the drawings within. Then, turning about, he had himself a much better look, and leaned down to study the detailed sketches.

“I can’t believe you right now, Daddy!”

“Did you draw these?” Hickory asked.

“I did,” Nut replied.

“But… you don’t have an artist’s mark. How? These are incredible.”

Nut’s ears fell back into a somewhat submissive posture. “Hard work, Mister Wainwright. Lots and lots of practice. I don’t have a mark for biology either, but that is my calling.”

“But… how?” Blinking, his small eyes flinty and curious, Hickory chewed his lip for a moment as he shook his head. After his lip slipped out from between his flat, broad teeth, he asked, “How though? A pony is his mark. That’s all we are, and all we’ll ever be. I make wagon wheels and wagons. If the need arises, I can do a bit of carpentry and some plumbing, but beyond that, I’m useless. I make wagon wheels, my father makes wagon wheels, his father made wagon wheels, all of my sons got a wagon wheel mark, and so did a few of my daughters.”

“Try practicing doing something other than wagon wheels,” Nut respectfully suggested. “It’s hard to start, but this is why you practice. Invest enough time, and you can be good at anything.”

The wiry stallion’s ears splayed out sideways. “I wanted Tater to get a wagon wheel mark. She’s smart, and that’s a problem.”

“That’s a problem?” Nut asked while remaining neutral-toned.

“Yeah.” Hickory nodded. “Now a pony that’s as dumb as a stump can work in the fields all day, and be happy. They don’t get bored, and bored is bad. Bored is how you get farm accidents, and farm accidents get legs lopped off or gets an eye poked out. Bored is bad. You wanna avoid bored. A smart pony gets bored out in the field working all day, and I don’t want a three legged daughter that’s missin’ an eye. No father wants that. I have nightmares about it.”

“Daddy?”

For now, Nut said nothing.

“Now, making wheels, it’s hard work, but it’s mental work. It’s mental math. Everything has got to be just so. It’s smart work, for smart ponies. But no matter how many times I lure Tater into the woodshop, she don’t come away with no mark. I’m starting to worry and get scared. Ain’t natural for a filly her age to have no mark at all. No mark for cooking, or farming, or woodworking, or making wheels, or anything. I gotta admit, I came out this way hoping that my daughter would have herself a mark this morning, after a night of trying something new. And near as I can tell, that didn’t happen, because she’s up there begging to be let down, and she’s not telling me about her new mark. So I’m a bit disappointed.”

“My apologies—”

“Don’t be sorry, you done locked my girl away in a tower, and I’m pleased ‘bout that.”

“Daddy, yer the worst! Both of y’all are! Get me down!”

“Tater, sweetie, you don’t know how good you have it. Yer Ma can’t reach you up there.”

“Oh, Pa, she’d find a way.” Up on top of the tower, Tater Blossom stomped her hooves against the tin roof while she shook her backside from side to side. “Please, get me down before something embarrassing happens! My teeth is a-floatin’!”

Nut raised a hoof and made an apologetic gesture. “Excuse me, but I do believe that I’d better get the young lady down…”

Breakfast was oatmeal, plain, and leftovers from last night’s supper. While Nut served himself and Tater Blossom, Hickory had his nose buried in Nut’s sketchbook. The oatmeal was placed into two wooden bowls, and the leftovers on wooden plates. There was a thermos that sloshed when shook, and when opened, Nut caught a whiff of tea, some kind of strong breakfast blend.

Much to his dismay, there were no teacups. That was fine, though. Rather than say anything, or complain, he would just pour his tea into his oatmeal bowl once it was emptied, and everything would be hunky-dory. Hickory grunted, and Nut wanted to know what he was thinking. In the very bottom of the basket, wrapped in a clean, white cloth, there were a half-dozen biscuits, still warm.

Lifting one out, he bit off a hunk, and was pleased by its simple goodness.

“The detail,” Hickory said aloud.

Swallowing his bite of biscuit, Nut nodded and replied, “I spent many hours in observation last night. I only ever saw brief glimpses and obscured flashes of the curious creatures, but I was able to assemble all of the details into accurate representations. It’s just a matter of making the pieces fit together, like a puzzle. I might secure a live specimen for a more detailed drawing.”

“These are like photographs,” Hickory muttered.

“They’re not perfect.” Nut saw Tater approaching. “Like I said, I took whatever I could see at any given viewing and put the parts together. I did it to give me an idea of proportion and mass. I drew the plants and environments as well, and tried to keep everything to scale.”

“What’re these hashmarks on the bottom of this page?” Hickory asked as his daughter sat down beside him.

“Rabbits,” Nut was quick to say in response. “Last night, as I watched, nineteen rabbits were caught and eaten. And those are just the ones I witnessed. I’m sure that more bunnies met a bad end.”

When Hickory lifted his muzzle out of the notebook, his expression was thoughtful. Calculating, even. “Twenty rabbits in a night or more in just one patch. That’s a lot of crops not-eaten. We do everything but lay out poison. The wife calls it the rabbit tax. I’ve even thought about hiring griffons to do a cull, but the wife, she ain’t happy with that idea. She hates griffons, ya see. ‘Cause they eat meat.”

Using his telekinesis, Nut served Tater Blossom her breakfast.

“Mama says that anything that’ll eat meat will eat pony—”

“And that’s evil,” Hickory said, finishing his daughter’s sentence. He sighed, his small eyes narrowed, and his face vanished back inside of Nut’s notebook. “Yer mother was up half the night, going on about Nut’s evil, and she seemed to think that we’d need to arrange a wedding by morning, because he surely would take advantage of you. A part of me thinks yer Ma wanted that to happen. She’s gettin’ desperate.”

Scowling, Nut tore into his biscuit, and gave it a good thorough chewing.

“Pa, Nut was a perfect gentlepony—”

“I know.”

“—until he left me stranded up on yonder tower.”

Hickory snorted, and chuckled a bit. “That was funny.”

“Not really.” Tater Blossom lifted up her wooden bowl, clasping it between her two front hooves. “So Ma wanted me to be taken advantage of?”

“Tater, how many heats has it been?”

“Daddy!” She almost dropped her bowl and her eyes went wide as her face darkened with embarrassment. “You shush that mouth! That’s private!”

“Tater, every single one of your sisters was married after their first heat. For you, it’s been what, three? Four? Five? I don’t even know.”

“Daddy, I swear to Celestia herself, if you say one more embarrassing word, I’ll overturn this here bowl of slop right over yer head.”

“I’d let you,” Hickory replied, his words muffled by the sketchbook.

Nut swallowed his well-chewed bite of biscuit, and took another.

“Rather rude of yer Ma to leave y’alls breakfast so plain. I’m a trifle irritated with my missus at the moment.” His face obscured, Hickory sighed.

“Now I’m too mad to eat.” Setting her bowl back down on the grass, Tater Blossom bared her teeth. “Mama wantin’ me to be taken advantage of. What sort of mother wants that for her daughter, anyhow? I have half a mind to go on up to the house and cuss her out.”

“Tater, please, remember I love you when I say this, but you’ve become a mouth to feed. You skip off from work ‘cause you get bored. When was the last time you did your school work? You don’t help much around the house, ‘cept for lookin’ after your little sisters, and I’ll give ya that. Yer Ma’s patience is wearin’ thin, Tarter darlin’. You should’ve had yer own family by now, yer own house, and you should be contributin’ yer fair share. You ain’t.”

“Well, ‘scuse me if I don’t want to spend the next few decades pregnant!”

“Tater, honey, the farm needs workers. The more workers we have, the more food we make. The more food we make, the better Equestria does. We’re earth ponies, Tater. This is what we do to do our part. I ain’t trying to be mean”—he lifted his face out the notebook to look at his daughter—“I’m just trying to ‘splain to ya why yer Ma stays so mad all the time. Yer Ma feels like she’s doing ya a favour by lettin’ ya stay in school this long, but since you stopped payin’ attention to yer lessons, yer Ma feels like you’ve turned ungrateful. That you don’t appreciate the kindness you’ve been given’.”

“All Mama teaches is the Will of Almighty Celestia.” Rolling her eyes, Tater Blossom let fly a contemptuous snort. “Mama doesn’t even try to make school interestin’ no more. She don’t teach nothing worth hearing to no one. Not me, not the little ones, not nopony. No more readin’, no more writin’, and no more arithmetic. She ain’t taught the three Rs in a long, long time to nopony. She’s just goin’ through the motions. And I hate her for it!”

“Tater—”

“Well, I do! I deserve better!”

Closing the notebook, Hickory set it down with great care, sighed, and then sat there, looking troubled. Tater Blossom folded her forelegs over her barrel, ducked her head low, and sulked. Nut, though quite bothered by all of this, continued to consume his biscuits, and thought about tucking into his oatmeal, so he would have something to drink out of.

“Tater, love… lots of ponies deserve better, but we’s stuck with what we’s got. It ain’t nice, ain’t fair, ain’t fun, but it is what it is. You have to accept that. The world is the way it is, and we’re stuck living in it, even if we don’t like it. I want better for you”—Hickory made a broad sweeping gesture at everything around him—“but this is all there is. This is all I have to give you. What you see is what you get. There ain’t no more. You gotta grow up, Tater… you can’t stay a filly forever. At some point, yer Ma is gonna get fed up, and she’s gonna toss you out on your markless keister, and there won’t be nothing I can do.”

“You… you… yer just as bad as she is,” Tater spat out and she narrowed her eyes at her father. “You let her whip me and you don’t do nothin’, and I know why. You don’t want her givin’ you cold withers at night when you go to bed. You could be stickin’ up for me, but you ain’t! ‘Cause I ain’t worth it, am I? Just another mouth to feed, ain’t I? For all your sweet talk about me bein’ yer favourite, you sure don’t back it up! Worried that Ma will serve ya a cold supper?”

Before her father could reply, Tater Blossom was up on her hooves, and with her head shaking from side to side, she galloped away with her mane and tail streaming out behind her.

Saying nothing, Hickory watched her go, and Nut ate his breakfast in silence.

“I didn’t want to get married,” Hickory said while Nut ate his breakfast. “Me, I wanted to join the Guard. I wanted to wear the golden armor. But that didn’t happen. I don’t have good tendons, so my joints can be a bit too bendy. My father sat me down one fine day, and he sorted me out. There was no fixin’ what was wrong, and I wasn’t ever gonna wear that golden armor.

“I was twelve,” the wiry stallion continued. “Since I couldn’t do my duty in the Guard, since I couldn’t wear that golden armor, I decided to do my part here. I told my Pa I was ready to do my part, and he got me liquored up with moonshine, and the colt I once was got drownt. That was the end of him, and good riddance. Next day, I married Blaue. She was nine, and itchin’ to get settled. She had herself a hankerin’ for it. We got our hooves all tied together and we pulled a wagon the distance, just as expected. My tendons gave way, and I twisted my knee pretty bad, but that didn’t slow her down in the slightest. She bore all the weight of that wagon while I limped along, and when the pain was too much to bear, she wiped my tears away with her ears.

“I spent our honeymoon on my back, tryin’ not to bawl e’ery time my leg got bumped or jostled. All those dreams of being in the Guard, they died, just a little at a time. I wanted to wear the armor, and I wanted to make wagons fit for war. But what I wanted and what I got turned out to be two different things. That’s the thing, Nut… you have to make the most of what life gives you.”

In thoughtful silence, Nut listened, and did his best to appear attentive while he ate.

“Thirteen daughters. A baker’s dozen. Five sons. Twenty some-odd years of marriage. Buried two daughters, and one son. One of my sons, he got himself some kinda fever, it got real, real bad, and it stole his hearing away. Doesn’t slow him down in the woodshop. Ain’t nopony I know that can turn a lathe like he can. And he can do it from sunrise to sunset, without fail or falter.”

Hickory sighed.

“Potato Blossom… she was… she was born different. She didn’t hide ‘neath her mother like all the others. She wasn’t no fraidy-foal. Nope, she was gone, lickety-split, and she wore her mother ragged. Poor Blaue, she can walk all day, pull a heavy load, but she’s not a sprinter, and Tater made her sprint. Even pregnant, and fit to split, Tater made her mother run after her, and that little spud wouldn’t slow down for nothing. There was a big wide world to see, and little Tater was in a hurry to see as much as she could, as fast as possible. And she never shut up… she talked her mother’s ear right off. Drove her mama nuts.”

Eyes half-closed, Hickory shook his head. “I don’t know what went wrong.”

Nut thought of his own parents. They weren’t so different, really. His mother and father had married at the age of ten and eleven, with his mother being a year older. Arranged marriage, done by the family matchmakers, who treated successful pairings like a science. For his parents, marriage was just another classroom, with teachers, tutours, lessons, and homework. They were supervised and at the slightest sign of trouble, assistance was given. Detrimental behaviours were corrected before they became a problem.

When at last they were well prepared and ready, they were given space to live their lives.

So there were differences, but at the same time, it wasn’t that different. There were similarities. Common ground. Nut had a match made for him, which he’d politely declined. No pressure. No consequences. His cousin was a bit miffed, but she’d forgiven him, and they still loved one another. They were still family, that part hadn’t changed. As he ate his oatmeal, Nut found himself wondering what might have been.

He and Pod might’ve gone to university together and been study partners. Helpmates. They might have traveled together, had fun together, been young together, and when the time was right, had a foal or two together. But Pod wanted the family fortune, and the family advantage, and everything else that came with being who and what they were.

And Nut… he wanted something different.

Pod studied the reproductive sciences and she too, was a biologist.

She was a pleasant shade of green… enough so that she was sometimes called ‘Pea Pod.’ A rather musical sort, she played the trumpet. For a time, he was certain her mark would involve music, but he was wrong. One day, while attempting to draw his blood while playing doctor, a syringe and a test tube appeared. So began her love of biology.

Nut was practically a hobo. He glanced at his suitcase desk and wondered what it was that he was doing here. Why he struggled to live by his own means and get by on his own merits. When he looked at Hickory, he saw a stallion broken by time and circumstance. It was pretty awful, really, but one could not simply say such things aloud.

He was a rail-thin hobo whose tweed was more repair spell than fabric. Why, he was so busy trying to prove that he could, that he hadn’t stopped to think if he should. What had being headstrong done for him, exactly? What had he accomplished? For that matter, what would poor Tater Blossom accomplish by being stubborn and defiant?

For the first time, he felt sincere regret over declining his shared engagement with Pod.

“You have regrets,” Hickory said, and this was a statement, not a question.

“I do,” Nut admitted.

“That’s two of us,” Hickory muttered.

“I am the agent of my own destiny. No idea how I’m getting there, but I know where I need to be.” Not one for self-doubt, Nut did wonder if he was deluding himself, and this pained him. “Come Tartarus or high water, I will accomplish the fate I’ve chosen for myself.”

“But how does a pony choose a fate beyond their mark?” Hickory asked. “You have an umbrella, for Almighty Celestia’s sake. How do you go beyond that, whatever that is?”

“I push ahead.” Ears erect, Nut held his head high, a Canterlot noble to the bone. “Blindly, if need be. I don’t need the assistive push and shove of destiny, only whatever motivation I can muster up for myself. My future lies in the Gallopagos. I can’t say how or why I know, only that I have a gut feeling. Quite liberating, really. I have no mark for guidance, no star to light my way. Only skillful navigation can save me.”

Shaking his head, Hickory sighed. “I don’t get it. A pony is their mark. That mark is everything they are, and everything they ever will be. It’s like a marked path. If you leave the path, you get lost. You know what happens to lost ponies? They get ate.”

Dropping his gaze, Nut stared down into his half-finished oatmeal.

“Tater has no mark at all. No future. There is no marked path. That scares me something fierce. I’m worried that she’s gonna go astray, and get ate. What can I do? It’s not my place to give her a future… destiny does that. I keep telling the missus to be patient, and give destiny a chance to catch up to Tater, ‘cause she’s a runner. I’m sure that destiny is getting close now, and it’s probably a bit winded from a-runnin’ after her. But Tater won’t slow down, not for destiny, not for her mother, not for anything. What can I do?”

Hickory stood up, gave himself a shake, and a weak, sad smile spread over his muzzle. “I’ve taken up too much of your time as it is, Nut. When it’s about noon, I’ll bring lunch. Yer still trusted with my Spudlet, Nut. She’ll come back once I’m gone. Maybe you can talk to her. Try to set her straight. Maybe she’ll listen to you. Anyhow, I gotta be going. There’s work to be done.”

“Goodbye, Mister Wainwright.”

“Later, Nut.”

Author's Note

So... thoughts? I understand that this is a bit... different. A different set of social mores are at work.

At least Tater got a chance to feel like a princess... in a tower.

Chapter 4

Bone litter. Nut levitated the fragments of bone and squinted through his monocle so that he might have a better look. There were places where the bone had been scraped by small, hard teeth. Trolls had teeth, teeth made from what appeared to be wood with remarkable hardness and density. Craftsponies made things from troll teeth, a practice that Nut found rather ghastly, but he could not deny that self-repairing hardwoods and such had a certain appeal.

In fact, some such troll teeth were harder than steel and their magic allowed trolls to gnaw through stone. But, these teeth didn’t appear to be all that fearsome, from the looks of things. Some of the bones were cracked, so that the marrow could be extracted. The teeth that had done this were tiny, teeny tiny little teeth that might deliver a nasty bite, but weren’t extraordinarily dangerous. Only some of the bones had been cracked open, the thinner, more fragile bits and sections. Clearly, this was evidence of a weak bite.

After his examination of the bone litter, Nut began to examine the soil, hoping to find troll pellets, though he wasn’t sure what to look for. Large trolls left behind large, noticeable troll pellets, which did remarkable things for the soil. Troll waste had all manner of nutrients and soil conditioners that benefited any ecosystem in which it was deposited. It stood to reason that tiny trolls, if he was, in fact, dealing with tiny trolls, would also have a beneficial effect upon their environs.

Nut found himself quite disturbed by the cooperative behaviour. Trolls reproduced with violence, tearing each other from limb to limb, and exchanging sap. Severed troll bits saturated with sap from multiple trolls grew into new trolls, with potentially the best aspects and features of each troll involved in the exchange, of which there could be several. It was quite fascinating, really, and troll sap was a curious liquid, serving as blood and reproductive fluid.

Troll sap was also extremely flammable, which meant it had a variety of practical uses.

Scowling, his face wizened with wrinkles, Nut put the bone litter into a small glass container. These would need to be studied, analysed in detail, so that every available bit of knowledge could be extracted. The glass container was closed, and with just a smidgeon of magic, Nut hermetically sealed it so that his specimens would be preserved.

With a turn of his head, the sealed glass container went zooming over to his belongings and was tucked beneath a notebook. Casting his gaze downward, he began to examine the soil. It didn’t matter what he found, so long as it was interesting. A bit more bone litter, what might have been footprints, a dead moth with one missing wing, but nothing that looked like troll pellets, which typically appeared to be clods of sticky black dirt with speckles.

He’d been sent here to determine if there was something worth further study; there was. There was more than enough compelling evidence already, and he was almost certain that the photographs that he’d taken would turn out well. If he wanted to do, he could yank a specimen out of the ground and get plenty of photographic evidence. Samples were good, but really, all he needed was a compelling yes or a definitive no.

So why was he dragging his hooves?

He was dragging his hooves.

Technically, he could leave today, and be satisfied with a job done well.

Was the odd phenomenon here worth the cost of a team so that a study could be done?

Yes, yes it was.

Since he had the answer, what was he doing here?

Trolls were fascinating, and he was fond of them.

No, that wasn’t quite it.

That wasn’t as truthful a statement as he wished for it to be.

And what of biases? He found this subject lurking about in his mind. Were his hunches biased conjecture, with a heaping, helping portion of bias confirmation? With scarcely any data, he’d suspected that these were trolls. Yes, there was a great deal of bias here. Blaue Viola Solanum certainly confirmed many of his biases about rural equines—but her husband, Hickory, not so much. In fact, Hickory defied stereotypes, the building blocks of biases. Or perhaps he had it backwards, and maybe biases were the building blocks of stereotypes, he could never quite tell.

It was something of a chicken or the egg conundrum, but the simple answer here had to be chicken; after all, when this idiom was brought to bear, when was the last time anypony said, ‘which came first, the egg or the chicken?’ Reversing them made them sound ludicrous, so the simplest, most direct answer was chicken, if only to sound like a sane, reasonable, rational creature.

Which in and of itself was a form of bias.

Thoughtful, Nut paused to sort out his thoughts.

“Natural selection,” he said to himself, almost muttering. “Survival of the fittest. Only the very best biases survive in the primal jungles of cognitive rationality. Alpha biases. Apex biases. Some of which have reigned supreme throughout the ages. Unicorns are snobs. Pegasus ponies are brutes. Earth ponies are numbskulls. These biases somehow survive because we believe them to be true, they are self-evident… just as any pony who has seen a pegasus showing off his plumage in a bird bath would know.”

Biases, left unchecked, were the weeds that destroyed a garden of ideology. A beautiful faith might become a soul-crushing religion if the gardners became negligent and lax. There was a certain irony in the fact that earth ponies were the very best gardners, but in this settlement of earth ponies, the garden was overrun with weeds.

Not only that, but it was potentially infested with trolls, posing as harmless vegetables.

“Natural selection,” he muttered again. “It has been said that Canterlot is a city founded on natural selection. The best and the brightest rose to the top. They occupy their lofty city, and I’m not so sure that Canterlot is any less stagnated than this place.” Head drooping, he chewed his lip for a moment, not liking his thoughts at all, but much like unwanted flies, he could not be rid of them.

Isn’t that why he left home? To live by his own means? If what was said was true, that Canterlot unicorns were the very best and brightest that the world had to offer, then he would have no trouble rising back to the top. Yet, here he was, standing in some alicorn-forsaken rural backwater, poor and speaking to himself about the virtues of natural selection.

Like unleavened bread, he hadn’t done much rising.

He survived solely on odd jobs.

After coming down from the lofty clouds of Canterlot, he found a world that was not at all like the one he expected, the world that he’d learned about in school. Out of his own natural ecosystem, Nut found that the world was not rigged in his favour. The odds of survival were decidedly against him. Living as a commoner had been something of an eye-opener, an education in and of itself. What did the peasantry call it? The School of Hard Knocks?

That he survived at all had to be his upbringing as a noble, which had afforded him every advantage. Education well-beyond the reach of the average commoner. Extensive arms and combat training from Princess Celestia’s School for Disproportionate Responders. Manners Maketh Pony, as the old school motto stated in loopy, flowing letters.

Nut was a pony made from biases, and in trying to undo them, he threatened his own very existence. When thoroughly unraveled, with every thread of bias picked apart, Nut suspected that there would be nothing left at all, just a pony-shaped container meant to hold biases. Leaving home was rather like unraveling a fine tweed waistcoat, and now that his finery was gone, he was laid bare.

So laid bare, he now stood in a distant rural farm, far, far away from civilisation, muttering to himself.

Was he not the very pinnacle of what Canterlot had to offer?

“Mister Nut, are you okay?”

Withers sagging, he recognised the sound of Tater Blossom’s voice. She sounded distraught and he most definitely didn’t want her seeing him like this. Right away, his demeanour changed, he regained his starchy posture, and quickly composed himself so that he might be presentable. When he turned around, he saw her, and she’d been crying. It was so obvious that she’d been crying that it made him wonder why she’d done nothing to hide it. Young mares guarded their appearances; snotty noses and red eyes were worn in private, but never seen in public.

“Miss Blossom, the same might be asked of you.”

“The way you talk,” she said.

To Nut’s ears, it sounded as though she said, ‘tawk,’ which he found endearing for some reason. Everything about her was endearing. From her rather ruralish colouration, to her straight hanks of mane, to her brash, roughshod manner. She was covered in grass, twigs, and bits of leaves. Vivid green grass stains were plainly visible on her back and sides.

“I saved you breakfast,” he said.

“Well that is mighty kind of you.” She almost smiled. “Mister Nut, don’t take this the wrong way, but you look like you need breakfast more than I do. I’m pretty sure my legs are bigger than your neck.”

Before he could think about what it was that he was saying, he found himself blurting out, “I survive on pretzels and pints in the pub. After paying for school, I have very little pocket money.”

“I’ve never wanted for a meal,” Tater Blossom said, her round, chubby face now thoughtful. “Of all the things Mama’s done to me, leavin’ me hungry ain’t one of them. I done been thinkin’ ‘bout what I have to be grateful for, like Pinkie Pie do. It’s in her book. She calls it countin’ her reasons to smile.”

“That book clearly means a lot to you.”

“Without it, I mighta gone crazy by now. Mama has her Way of Almighty Celestia, and I done reckon I have my Pinkie Pie. I can’t make sense of it, but I done s’pose there’s something meaningful in that.”

“Indeed.”

“The way you talk, Mister Nut.”

“I strive for eloquence.”

Tater Blossom took a step closer and stepped out of the shadow of the wellhouse. Then, bathed in sunlight, she stopped. “I done heard Mama and two of my sisters talking ‘bout you. Mama seems to think you must like other stallions, or maybe colts, on account of me making it through the night untouched. Mama says I’m too pretty to leave alone, and I don’t know how I feel about that. She called you a fruit and my sister called you Nutty Fruitcake. Then all three of them had a laugh.”

“Is that so?” Without realising it, his eyebrow rose, and he struck a rather dramatic pose. “She’s wrong, you know. I’m keen on umbrellas.”

“See, I done thought you’d say that.” A broad, toothy smile spread over her muzzle, and as this happened, a little good cheer returned to her red eyes.

Though he did not say it, he found it quite remarkable that Tater Blossom could sneak up on her mother and sisters like that. She was sneaky, young Miss Blossom, and that wasn’t a bad thing. Where others saw trouble, Nut saw potential. He stood there, staring, not caring about doing so, admiring Miss Blossom, who was neither a filly nor a mare. She was stuck in that confusing space in between. Too old to be foal, but too young to be an adult.

Yet, expected to be an adult nonetheless.

“Pinkie Pie says in her book that her life changed all complete like when this fancy, hifalutin unicorn came to Ponyville. This unicorn didn’t talk like them, didn’t act like them, and didn’t quite fit in with the ponies of Ponyville. She came down from Canterlot and Pinkie knew that life would never be the same.” Tater Blossom kicked at the dirt with her hooves, and shuffled about a bit. “You, you’re the unicorn that came to Widowwood, and things can’t go back to how they was.”

Nut found himself quite overcome with emotion, though no outward sign of it showed. He swallowed once, found his voice, and said, “Why thank you, young Miss. I say, that might very well be the most flattering thing ever said about me.”

“Mister Nut, the way you talk...”

“What is it about the way I talk?” he asked.

“I wanna talk like you,” she said without hesitation. Her eyes narrowed, widened, narrowed once more, widened again, and then her head tilted off to the left. “I’m sick of soundin’ like a hick. Now don’t go tellin’ me not to say that. I ain’t dumb. I might be country, but I ain’t dumb. I know what ponies think about hicks. I know what my Mama says about hicks, and rubes, and yokels, and the whole lot, and that mare is dumb enough to talk all that trash without once thinkin’ ‘bout the fact that she’s a hick herself. Every bad thing she says ‘bout hicks applies to me. To her. To us. All that talk about cousin-lovin’ bumpkins.”

Blank-faced, Nut despaired just a bit. Marrying a cousin was common in his family. The standard. It was an established norm. Yet, there were, indeed, some biases and stereotypes about cousin-marriage, and he’d only ever learned about them after leaving home. He’d been entirely sheltered from these views the entirety of his life, and upon learning that some ponies found cousin-marriage disagreeable, he’d been quite shocked.

It was something that had upset his worldview more than a little.

Behold, ladies and gentleponies: the noble hicks of Canterlot!

The last thing said was, “Mama didn’t put no sugar or cream in the tea and she needs to be slapped upside her fool head.” Then came the silence. Tater Blossom scarfed down her breakfast with gusto, got settled in, and then started reading through Nut’s notes. It occurred to him that she was hungry for reading material, not breakfast, and he marvelled at just how careful she was with books.

This was a pony who loved books.

As she read to herself in silence, Nut had an internal debate about catching a live specimen for study. An up close examination. He had his findings, more or less. These creatures warranted further study by a fully-staffed field team. Of course, the arrival of such a team might pose real problems for the ponies of Widowwood, or, perhaps, possibly, Nut imagined problems where none might exist. Maybe a team of scholars might descend upon the town and everything would be fine. Normal. Maybe his own biases left him believing that tensions might arise, and problems might manifest.

It was mid-morning; Nut knew because he’d checked his watch, a watch that never needed winding. A curious thing, it was powered by crystal, and kept perfect time due to the fact that said crystal released bursts of ambient thaumaturgical energy with clockwork precision. A wondrous object that served a mundane purpose. He checked it again, and again, and each time he opened it, he glanced at his parents, who waited just inside.

“Mister Nut, what is it with you and the Gallopagos Islands?”

He was quite unprepared for the question, with his mind in other places. Unable to answer right away, he sat down, stood up, sat down again, and thought about checking his watch, because he needed his parent’s reassurance. How could he explain himself? Where did he start? This was no mere question, but it was, perhaps, the question.

“Nopony’s been there,” he said at last. “Nopony can go there. The magic is too strong. The Gallopagos Islands don’t actually sit in the sea, but in the sky. Great masses of land that float—and nopony knows why. Water flows upwards, and sideways, and downwards, and nothing there makes sense. Now, you might be asking, if nopony has been there, how is this known?

“I’ll tell you; ponies have been near it. Strange occurrences have been observed at a distance. Magic mutates and changes the species to be found in that area, and evolution happens rapidly. Some species can never leave the area, they depend on the high magic environment to survive, but some species do leave. We get sea monsters, and flying creatures, and as they depart, they change as the background magical radiation changes. There is so much out there, just waiting to be learned.”

“But if you can’t go there, how will you go there?” she asked.

“Poison joke,” he replied. “There is a tea brewed from poison joke that can help a pony endure dangerous magical radiation. I am positive that said tea could be turned into a drug”—he held up his hoof as he continued—“a medicine made in concentrated form. I am positive that equine ingenuity will allow me to visit the islands. It is just a matter of finding a way.” His lips pursed for a moment and he shook his head. “Zebra ingenuity, perhaps. Somewhere, there exists a means. A way. But I wish to explore those islands where none of my kind have stood. I want to study the creatures, as they change and evolve. I want to see how life has adapted to the islands, to magic, and the entirely unique environment of floating islands that defy gravity. They have secrets, and it is my desire to know them.”

Tater Blossom started to say something, she drew in a deep breath, her mouth opened just enough to reveal her orange tongue, and her eyes twinkled with understanding. But no words came. After a time, her mouth closed, and her lips formed a tight-pressed thin line of thoughtful concentration.

When at last she found her words, what she had to say was quite profound.

“Mister Nut, if you go there, what if you evolve? I mean, what if the poison joke stuff doesn’t protect you? What if you… what if you stop being a pony and become something else? If critters change overnight, what about you? What will become of you? Don’t the idea of becoming something else bother you? Scare you?”

What he had to say in response was no less profound.

“I am almost certain that just preparing for the journey will change me as a pony. Adaptations will have to be made. I may very well have to alter my form through alchemy, or other means. The pony that leaves for the Gallopagos will not be the pony that is discussing this subject with you right now. As for the pony who comes home… who says I’ll return? I don’t know the future. Such radical alteration might very well make it impossible for me to return home. I know where I need to be, but I have no vision of the future that comes after.”

“Almighty Celestia, you gots you some courage, Nut. My Mama, for all her talk of unwavering faith in the Almighty, she ain’t never said anything with as much conviction as you just did. I want faith like that. My faith feels empty.”

To this, Nut didn’t know how to respond. Faith? He didn’t see it. If he couldn’t see it… no, he refused to think about blind faith. This wasn’t faith at all, but something else. What though? Not faith, clearly. What did he believe in, anyhow? He believed in the journey. Getting from here to there. He was a pony of science. Mad science, perhaps, the sort of science spoken about in hushed whispers, but science nonetheless. He wasn’t sure if faith and science could exist in the same pony. One was rational, the other, well, calling it irrational struck him as being crass. Cold rationality and logic suited him, and faith was… it was neither of those things.

“How do you do it, Nut?”

Before he could inquire as to what she meant, she continued, “How do you have these plans to do the impossible? How does a pony plan for these things? You seem so confident about it, so calm. Like it ain’t no big deal. Have you ever stopped to listen to yourself, Nut? You talk about goin’ off and doin’ this, you talk about maybe dyin’, and you say it all like it ain’t no big deal. How are you like that? I want that for myself.”

Scowling, Nut pulled off his monocle and slipped it into the pocket of his tweed waistcoat. Something needed to be said, he felt obligated to explain himself, but how? What words would serve him? How could he explain a lifetime of being told that anything was possible to a pony who’d been told that her every idea, her every desire, her every dream was wrong? No, telling her didn’t feel right, this was something that needed to be shown… but he lacked the means.

Defeated, he felt his heart sinking down into the depths of his guts.

Tomorrow, he would leave this place, return to Vanhoover, and report his findings. Life would go on. School would continue. As soon as he could get to a respectable, proper pub, he’d do his best to forget this place. He felt foolish and stupid for hoping to infect the thoughts of young Miss Blossom with science. What he was doing was disrupting her life. Suddenly uncertain of himself, he felt his tweed-clad confidence wrinkle a bit.

Tweed-clad confidence, it was said, was a magnitude stronger than ironclad confidence, and to feel it suddenly crinkle was quite disconcerting. His young companion deserved better, but there was no better to be had. Lots of ponies deserved better; he’d discovered that not long after leaving Canterlot. Up there, above the clouds, in Canterlot, he was a pony with every advantage. Down here, he was a too-thin hobo who avoided a state of rattiness through a blend of magic and gumption.

She had freckles.

Nut noticed them for the first time, and it was almost too much to bear.

A light dusting of freckles could be seen on the strong corners of her jaw, just below the place where her cheeks turned to pleasant, plump, chubbiness. There were far too few freckles in the world, Nut decided. To see her smile… he found himself in a strange place where neither optimism nor pessimism held sway. This… this was the exact reason why he avoided feelings. These sudden bouts of irrationality. Moments like this one could be circumvented if one kept one’s emotions in check.

“Gather your courage, Miss Blossom, for we’re going to capture a live specimen.”

Armed with a stylish umbrella named Susan, Nut recovered his tweed-clad confidence. Her heft somehow offered much-needed reassurance and the world was a more sensible place when he was holding her. From her beautiful hardwood crook, to her gleaming steel and brass, to her delicate gown made from spun dragon moth silk that he kept carefully oiled. Susan’s canopy was a masterpiece of Minotaurian stitch magic, which made her self-repairing. Lining the canopy was a fine chainmail mesh; he’d been told it had started out as regular chainmail, which was then shrunk and compressed into a thin curtain of high-strength steel. This mesh also had enchantments, more magical stitching done with fine steel thread.

The carrots had migrated a bit. They were armies, the carrots, swift moving, with the advantage of numbers. As for the cabbages, they were more or less where he’d seen them yesterday, though not in neat, orderly rows that ponies favoured in their planting. Of all the garden trolls, the cabbages were the most aggressive, though the potatoes might be the oddest.

Said potatoes were true to a potato plant, and during Nut’s overnight observations, he’d watched them hunt. Multiple tubers, all connected to a common shared photosynthesis engine. Connected as they were, a certain level of cooperation was required for them to coordinate their movement. It was a bit like two ponies tied together at the legs, and having to work together to run a race.

“There’s something peculiar ‘bout them tater blossoms.”

“Funny, there’s something peculiar about potato blossoms in general—”

“Hey, Mister, that’s not nice!”

“What do you find peculiar?”

“Something is off. I dunno what it is, just yet.”

With the peculiar potatoes just a few yards away, Nut paused. Squinting through his monocle, he examined the potato blossoms in question. He knew very little about potato plants, but thankfully, he was in the company of an expert. Patient, he waited for her to say something, anything, that might make clear what she found strange.

“Now, tater blossoms, when the taters is done a-growin’, they turn into little fruits. Green things, that look like tomaters. These tater blossoms look weird. I don’t know why I didn’t notice it before. Huh… not sure what it is, but I gots me this feeling of unease, like I’m being watched.”

“The eyes of the potatoes are upon you—”

“Mister Nut, if you make just one more bad joke, yer goin’ down yonder well.”

“Prey animals know when they’re being watched. Trust your feelings, Miss Blossom.”

“Yeah… we is bein’ watched. Them tater blossoms is eyes. Look, if you watch long enough, you can see ‘em blink. Look!”

Holding still, Nut waited. He was good at waiting. Waiting is what a naturalist did. Lots of waiting, long periods of intense boredom, interspersed with irrationally exuberant moments of running for one’s life. Exciting. Then he saw it; the petals moved in a weird way, and the potato blossom ‘blinked.’ Tater Blossom, the filly, not the plant, clucked her tongue in triumph.

Again, he saw a ‘blink.’

Fascinating.

Aboveground eyes to keep watch whilst they were buried. What an adaptation. These potatoes really did have eyes. A communal pack of potatoes—not to be confused with a peck of potatoes—that had eyes on their shared photosynthesis engine. His professors would have a hard time believing this. How did the eyes function? Was there a central brain? How was visual information processed?

Looking about, he sought out something to throw, and spotted a sun-dried stalk from something, which he lifted with his telekinesis. Monocle forward, he took careful aim, and tossed what he’d picked up from the soil. More of the potato plant’s eyes focused on the incoming stalk, the plant moved, and several green shoots sprang up to snatch the stalk out of the air. So caught, the stalk was dragged down to the base of the plant, where it was pulled beneath the ground.

“Miss Blossom,” he whispered to his companion, though the reason he was whispering was unknown. They were dealing with potatoes, not corn. “This is quite fascinating. I bet that bugs and like can be seized right out of the air, or maybe even birds. The visual acuity for such an act would require considerable brainpower. There’s distance, movement, the ability to track a target in motion. This is really quite extraordinary.”

“I just watched some taters grab something.” She shook her head, then shook her head even harder. “That’ll be in my dreams later. Tater tentacles.”

“So, the carrots hunt in packs, the cabbages are solitary predators, and the potatoes are ambush predators who lurk and keep watch. Which of them should we dig up, Miss Blossom?”

“So long as we don’t hurt ‘em, I don’t much care which. Maybe a cabbage. All of them spit, so we gotta watch out for that.”

“Yes, though they each have specialised applications, they seem to share a few common characteristics,” he replied.

“That’s a lot of words for a simple yes.”

“Indeed, there is a surplus of verbiage. Do forgive my verbose prolixity, I suffer from occasional bouts of logorrhea.”

“What in tarnation is logorrhea—no, wait, don’t tell me, is that like diarrhea of the mouth?”

“You possess a keen and rather remarkable intellect, Miss Blossom.”

“Thanks. I think. We should catch us a cabbage.”

Umbrella forward, Nut uprooted a cabbage and then conjured up a simple barrier spell, which he hoped would hold. Peering around the edge of Susan, he had himself a look at the hissing, spitting, thrashing vegetabloid creature that he’d just yanked out of the ground. The cabbage had a long root, which was the body. Nut counted three legs, two arms, and exactly one cyclopean eye.

In the mouth, hard wooden teeth could be seen gnashing, and the vulgar creature kept spitting. At the end of each arm, there were tiny hand-like appendages, with two claws on the right hand, and three claws on the left. Dirt crumbled and fell away from the rootlike body as the not-cabbage thrashed about, trying to get free.

Aside from the cabbage shape, it very much appeared to be a troll. The wooden teeth gave it away, as did the non-symmetrical body. Extra limbs were not uncommon. Sometimes, a troll had a severe injury, and when regeneration took place, extra limbs formed. Perhaps this cabbage had lost a leg to a rabbit or something, and two legs had grown in so that what was lost could be replaced.

“It’s angry.”

“Miss Blossom, you would be too if I suddenly uprooted you.”

“I think it knows I like coleslaw.”

“Oh, no doubt.” He grinned for the sake of grinning, and then turned around to head back to his camp, so that he could take pictures. “Keep an eye out for trouble, Miss Blossom, our actions might have consequences. Hopefully, we’ll not have angered them.”

A second glass container joined the first, and Nut was rather proud of his collection of mucus, shiny, glisting, and gleaming as it was. For having a single cyclopean eye, the cabbage-troll had exquisite aim, though at a rather short distance. He held it aloft now, and waited while his assistant situated herself behind the camera. Of course, he didn’t need for her to take pictures; he was a unicorn and this would be easy enough to do, but he liked that she was happy.

“Say cheese,” he said to the cabbage-troll, which snarled unpleasantly in response.

After his assistant took a picture, he said to her, “You just took the first up-close and hopefully detailed photograph of a new species. Congratulations, Miss Blossom. ‘Tis a fine accomplishment.”

Flustered, Tater Blossom blushed, and then stood there behind the camera, shuffling her hooves. She smiled, became more flustered, blushed a little harder, and then, grinning from ear to ear, she looked down at the ground and said, “Aw, shucks.”

“Another one, if you please, this time we capture his behind,” he said as he turned the cabbage-troll about so that its posteriour faced the camera.

Still flustered, her face still all a-blush, Tater Blossom snapped another photograph.

Author's Note

Tater Blossom don't like puns.

That makes her a supremely unlikable character. :ajbemused: Sorry, but it is a recurring theme, if you've been paying attention. At least her freckles are redeeming.

Chapter 5

“Science has a method,” Nut said to his over-eager student as he held a wriggling, thrashing not-carrot aloft. “Applied methodology.” He paused, thoughtful, distracted by Tater Blossom’s smile, which could be seen just behind the camera. “What we’re doing right now is observation and data collection. Last night was also a period of observation. It is through observation that we first begin to learn. During our observations, we begin to lay the groundwork for everything that follows.

“Hypothesis. Conjecture. Theory. The rigorous application of skepticism, which I strive for, but I am not always the best at. I went into this believing these creatures to be trolls. This is bias. A cognitive assumption which influences and potentially distorts what I observe. But my educated speculation proved true in this instance. These are trolls.

“Strange creatures were reported. I was sent to observe. From my observations, and a bit of inductive reasoning on my part, I have concluded that these creatures are, in fact, trolls. But this is only the beginning of understanding, of learning. Now we must ask why. We must ask ourselves how. New hypotheses must be formed, new theories. Which means more observations, more data collection, and a process of stringent refinement.

“I have started the process with a few basic conclusions, a bit of evidence, and some rudimentary data, all of which I will make a report upon, and the university will decide if further study by a qualified team is warranted.”

He set the not-carrot down and the moment it touched the soil, it scurried off to join its fellow not-carrots. Nut watched it go, thoughtful, on the verge of distraction, and when the not-carrot vanished from view, burying itself down into the dirt, he returned his attention to Tater Blossom. She appeared a bit confused, but was clearly thinking. This was good, and he was impressed. He rather enjoyed her thoughtful expression and the joy that could be seen in her eyes.

“You don’t have a cutie mark for what you do,” Tater Blossom said.

Sighing, Nut felt a pang of regret that she seemed stuck on that point of contention.

“So if somepony doubts your findings, because you ain’t got no mark, ain’t that bias? Can you challenge that? If’n you’re good at what you do and others are all doubtful like about yer findings, that seems like a bias to me. Am I wrong?”

Almost too proud for words, Nut allowed himself a warm smile as he replied, “No, Miss Blossom. You are not wrong. To doubt my findings because I lack a mark that gives me credibility, that is, indeed, a form of bias.”

“So if a team comes out this way, a-doubtin’ yer findings, won’t that mess up their findings? What they see? It seems to me that this doubt stuff, this bias, it’s like a snowball. There’s so much that can change what we see and how we see it.”

“You are correct, Miss Blossom.”

“So how do we know what’s true then? Does this mean that what we think is true changes over time as our understandin’ of everything changes? Does truth even exist at all? What is true?”

Saying nothing that might disturb her, Nut allowed his student her thoughts.

“If we put all our focus on our marks, and we do, we do put all our focus and faith on our marks, then it seems to me that our science is all kinds of messed up, because you can’t be alone, Nut. There has to be others like you. Thinky types, that does science, but ain’t got no mark for it. And if just everypony holds on to the idea that our marks make us who and what we are, then a lot of this data collected must be just dismissed or hoofwaved away.”

Then, rather bluntly, she asked, “Are we backwards, Nut? I mean we ponies. How do we get anything done? How do we science stuff with our wrong ways of thinkin’?”

She was still thinking, so he waited, thoughtful.

“I ain’t wrassled with rough thoughts for a while,” she muttered. “Feels good to be thinkin’ again. Not much gets me goin’ no more.”

There was no more film for the camera, but that was fine. Photographs had been taken of the not-cabbages, not-carrots, and not-potatoes. He’d been a bit worried about such direct, aggressive observation, but it seems his fears were unfounded. The creatures were not nearly as dangerous as he’d been lead to believe, but he suspected that his actions may very well have changed their behaviour. They had developed a healthy fear of unicorns, at least, which was sensible.

He had ways and means to thwart their offensive behaviours and nullify their aggression.

“So this scientific method… all we gotta do is watch something, see what it does, and then figure out the how and why? Is that really all there is too it?”

“More or less,” he replied, satisfied with her simplification.

“And as an earth pony, I can do that, right? I mean, I just did that last night, and most of today. I done been watchin’ these here trolls and near as I can tell, I don’t need to be no unicorn to be smart. Though, it seems to me that I mighta got bit if I tangled with them like you did. But I can do it. That’s the point. I can. So I got the watchin’ part down, which means I need to work on the how and why part. And that’s where I’m stuck. I need more schoolin’. Which ain’t gonna happen here.”

“But you can. Life is a classroom.” Nut took a few steps closer to Tater Blossom, who stood behind his camera. “It really is simple, Miss Blossom. You start with a question. Ask a question. Any question. Next comes research and data collection. After that, you put everything you’ve found together, and try to assemble a hypothesis. If you’ve managed to make it that far, you try experimenting next, so that you might determine if what you’ve found holds up under scrutiny. Does it work? Does it hold true? Can you draw conclusions? Is there more data to be had? Take extensive notes of your findings, and if you can, share those notes with others.”

“You know, Nut, this’d be so much easier if I could understand half of what you say. This is why I need schoolin’. It’s like you speak another language. I’m tryin’, Nut, but this is hard.”

Crestfallen, he wasn’t sure what to say.

It seemed that what he had to say made things worse.

That didn’t make him feel good.

Sighing, he pulled his watch from his pocket, opened it, and had a look at his parents. They had first explained the scientific method to him. How old had he been? A yearling? It was hard to remember. He’d known the scientific method before he’d known where foals came from. His room back home was wallpapered with flowcharts explaining the scientific method, and various ways to accomplish its objectives.

Tater Blossom had no such advantage.

It wasn’t fair.

He recalled his horror when his mother and father enthusiastically explained where foals came from. Where he’d come from, and how he was made. That too, had flowcharts accompanying it, as well as diagrams. A whole lesson plan. Every conceivable detail that had to do with the wonders of biology and creation had been presented, shown to him in all their splendour.

“Mister Nut?”

“Yes, Miss Blossom?”

“I can see a difference. Mama, she just says stuff that she believes to be true. She holds up her books, and says that these books is true. Because the book exists, the words inside must be true. And everything she says, and everything she does, it’s all based on these truths.”

The young filly scowled and appeared to struggle with her words.

“But none of what she has to say holds up to that method, near as I can tell. Now I understand that faith is just that, faith, sometimes you believe without proof of whatever, but I… but… aw, shucks, I don’t know where I’m goin’ with this. Where can I go? Can faith even exist in the world with this here method?”

With little time spent in thought, Nut replied, “I have faith in science.”

Tater Blossom’s knees wobbled, and she stumbled backwards, as if she’d been struck. She sat down rather suddenly, and there was a duck-lipped expression to be seen upon her face. Nut’s first thought was to rush forward, to be with her, to be close to her, but he gave her the space she needed to process whatever it was that was going through her head. She was having a moment—and for this, he was glad.

Whatever came afterward, whatever might develop, ‘twould be glorious.

“But, Mister Nut, truth changes over time. If science is about truth, and truth changes, and you have faith in science, you have faith in the truth changing.”

“So it does,” he replied. With his thoughts provoked in such a manner, he took a moment to reflect upon the wise words spoken. “So I do.”

“Truth evolves,” Tater Blossom said, and her words were accompanied by a hard swallow. “Is this why you study evolution? ‘Cause when it comes down to it, it seems to be that evolution might just be the only truth. It keeps changin’, and provin’ that it’s true.”

Not wanting to influence her thoughts at such a crucial moment of development, Nut held his tongue.

“But that’s whatchacallit, a theory,” she said, blinking. “An idea. A good idea, but an idea. So I have this idea, how do I make it true? How do I hold this up to the method to give it a good sortin’ out?”

“Ah,” he said, pleased with her words, “that’s the real trick, isn’t it?”

“I have no idea how to get started. My brain is on fire with ideas.”

Such exquisite sadness and joy in equal measure. For her to have such an awakening. But what would be done with it? What could be done with it? These seeds had fallen into fertile soil, but Nut could already see the weeds that would choke them out. Pained, depressed, saddened, he wasn’t quite sure what to do, or how to feel about all of this. Yet, he was happy for Tater Blossom’s conclusions, for her thoughts.

Life didn’t feel very fair at times.

Mere moments after putting the picnic basket down, Hickory had his nose tucked into one of Nut’s sketchbooks. Upon arriving, the stallion had said very little, just a perfunctory grunt of hello due his mouth being full, which really wasn’t saying much at all. No mention had been made about the contents of the basket, what lunch awaited them.

“Pa, you alright?”

Hickory grunted.

“Pa?”

“It’s a hard thing, makin’ stuff straight or makin’ a perfect curve,” Hickory said from behind the book he held in his front hooves. “Hard thing indeed. A thing I respect. Don’t matter how it’s done, with wood, or brick, or pencil on paper. A line must be true, or it ain’t much of a line.”

“Daddy?”

“Tater, eat yer lunch. I done told the missus off, and I had yer sister make lunch.”

“Oh.” Tater Blossom’s ears fell back, her eyes narrowed, and sitting in the grass, she studied her father. “Butte Russet?” Her composure only held up for a few precious seconds, and then she began to giggle.

“I done told the missus not to name that pretty little thing Butte Russet, but I wasn’t listened to. What did I know, anyhow? Don’t tease yer sister, Tater. She was nice enough to fix lunch and a desert.” Then, Hickory snorted. “Butte Russet. I tried to tell that mare.”

“It’s really nice of her to cook for us.” Another giggle escaped, this one rather halfhearted, and then Tater Blossom turned subdued. “My poor sister is fit to pop. She shouldn’t be cookin’, she should be restin’.”

“If a mare stopped workin’ e’ery time she’s foalin’, ain’t no work would get done at all.”

“But Pa—”

“But this, and but that, sometimes I think you shoulda been called Butte Russet.”

Nut watched Tater Blossom’s ears rise in defiance.

Before anything rash might be said, Nut changed the subject. “Mister Wainwright, I have information that I believe you will find beneficial.”

“Is that so?” Hickory said from behind the sketchbook.

“The trolls are an asset. It is my recommendation that you try to live together, if possible. Miss Blossom here, she knows how to spot them. If you listen to her, she can tell you what to look for. If left alone and given space, these garden trolls might prove useful. The risks, such as they are, can be mitigated. They will always be dangerous, but that is a small price to pay for far fewer rabbits.”

“Yep.” Hickory closed the book, set it back down upon the suitcase desk, and then focused his small eyes on Nut. “I had the same thoughts, but I find it reassurin’ to hear you say it. They is gonna spread though, ain’t they?”

“They will.” Nut nodded. “I don’t know how fast their numbers will increase, or how fast and how far they will spread. For the life of me, I can’t even imagine how they appeared here, in this place, or from where they might have came from. I am going to recommend that the university fund a study.”

“Oh, that’ll set the missus off somethin’ fierce.”

“Maybe Mama needs to be set off,” Tater Blossom mumbled, and this got her a stern stare from her father, which she ignored.

“We’re dealing with a wholly new type of troll, one to my knowledge, that has not been previously encountered. I’m something of an expert on trolls. Not sure why I’m recognised as such, but I am. Not too many field researchers are willing to study them up close, I suppose.”

“There’s something I don’t get,” Hickory said as he returned his attention to Nut.

“And what would that be?”

“How is it that a feller such as yerself can study things like trolls, and not get ate?”

Nut did not respond right away. Instead, he squirmed a bit, hesitant to answer. Ponies were often uncomfortable with the answer. Nut aspired to be a genteel sort, but discussing his true talent, the very thing that made his mark appear, that made others uncomfortable. It wasn’t something typically discussed in polite company.

“Now that it’s mentioned, I’m powerful curious myself.” Tater Blossom was very much her father’s daughter at the moment, and wore a similar expression.

“Biology and scholarly pursuits are not my natural talent. Neither is art, my sketchings, nor photography. My refinement and my interests are all things I do that keep my true talent in check… how I keep myself balanced out.” Trying to calm himself, he thought of Susan.

“But what is it?” Hickory asked.

“I fear that if I told you, you would see me in a wholly different light,” Nut replied.

“It has something to do with the umbrella.” Hickory proved no less thoughtful than his daughter, and his small eyes glittered with keen intelligence.

“I suppose it could be said that the umbrella is the ultimate refinement of my talent,” Nut said, without mentioning what his talent was. “My talent also makes me uniquely suited to study natural selection, and the survival of the fittest. At least, that is what I’m told. I actually have some doubts about the whole thing, and I rather think that those who’ve told me would very much like to comfort me. To reassure me that everything is okay, and that I’m loved and accepted.”

“Suddenly, I’m uncomfortable without knowin’ why.” Hickory’s eyes narrowed, and he leaned forward. “Why would a talent involving an umbrella need that kind of reassurance? How is it that you need comfort, and why would you worry about being loved? Something don’t add up.”

Every time Hickory said ‘umbrella’ it came out as ‘umbreller.’

Nut found himself trembling a bit. The last time his talent was discussed, he found himself somewhat ostracised by his peers. Truth be told, he didn’t have a socially acceptable talent, but Celestia, in all her wisdom, had prepared for ponies such as himself, and his talent had been refined into something… suitable. It wasn’t something to be discussed in polite company of course. Even worse, Nut had made everything worse for himself, because he’d chosen not to become a soldier. Doing so might’ve made things easier.

“I was an excitable colt,” he began. “Not like I am now. Would you believe that I flunked magical kindergarten?” He grinned, nervous. “It’s true. I did. There was too much to see and do, and I was too busy watching the ants and the bees to pay much attention to my teacher. Now, this has nothing to do with my talent, but everything to do with my interests.”

Frightened just a bit, Nut sighed and tried to determine how this might end.

“For many foals, something magical happens when they pick up a pencil, or a paint brush, or play the piano, or any number of things. They show promise, even if a mark doesn’t manifest right away. But you know they’re special, and so you nurture that talent, you cultivate it, until such a time that a mark appears. It doesn’t always happen, sometimes the mark is for something unexpected that has nothing to do with what the foal appears to be gifted in.”

“Uh-huh,” Hickory and Tater Blossom both said together in unison.

“Well, one day, when I was quite small, I picked up a sword, and something magical happened. Some foals, they pick up a paint brush, and mark or no, they’re impressive artists right away. Well, my paintbrush was a sword, and my artistry violence. I wasn’t just good at it, no. No, it could be said that I was gifted. A prodigy. And not just swords, but anything I picked up. Halberds, spears, bec de corbins, axes, throwing knives, darts, chain whips, I was allowed to try everything with the hopes that my mark would appear.

“Because of my unique talent, because of the extreme nature of my talent, I was a prodigy, but not with a violin, pen, or paintbrush, I was taken out of school and placed into a special finishing school so that my gifts might be refined. Princess Celestia’s School for Disproportionate Responders. My mornings were filled with lessons and schoolwork, and my afternoons were spent refining my gift. Great efforts were made to draw out my talent so that my mark would appear. The refinement was necessary, you see… I was dangerous, and if left unrefined, why, I could become a danger to society. A menace. So I was schooled in etiquette and I was made a sheathed sword… which is to say, safe until drawn forth. Much time was spent conditioning me to be gentle, to be kind. My temper was tempered and my emotions were held in check.

“While all of that was helpful, none of that changed who and what I was. Early on, I decided that I didn’t want to be a soldier. There was a lot of pressure to become one… an officer. But I was against it, and so were my parents. They were very supportive, my parents. They read all the brochures, attended all the support groups, and did all of the followthrough that parents go through when a foal displays a worrisome talent that may cause trouble. It seemed as though everypony knew what my mark would be, just not what form it would take.”

“That’s… something…” Tater Blossom said, her voice a bit shrill with fear.

“When I worked as a page in the castle, I was also active in security. Looking back on it, I think my time as a page was my graduation test. I had to show patience. Restraint. My genteel nature was tested daily by an unaware public, many of whom treated me quite badly. Princess Celestia watched me like a hawk, at least I’m pretty sure she did. I never gave her a reason to doubt that I was a sheathed sword.”

“But, an umbrella,” Hickory said.

“Susan is a war umbrella, Pa. A weapon. A defensive weapon, now that I think about it, which I’d say suits Nut’s nature. He said he’s a sheathed sword.” Tater Blossom, like her father, leaned forwards. “What I don’t get is, how does this help you study critters and evolution?”

“Oh, that’s quite simple, Miss Blossom. Violence is the ultimate survival adaptation. Perhaps the pinnacle of all adaptations.” He took a moment to adjust his collar, and as he did so, he thought about his loving parents. “Different species grow claws, or fangs, or armored bodies, there are all manner of adaptations in mundane species. Now magical species, they have even more variations, some of which are fantastic and incredible. I am a small terrestrial quadruped that is considered a prey-species. Under normal circumstances, I would be a snack for a troll. I’m gifted with a unique adaptation that enhances my survival.”

“Well”—Hickory shook his head—“I dunno what to say. Not sure what I can say.”

“You don’t think less of me?” Nut asked, uncertain of where he stood at the moment.

“How could I?” Hickory countered. “A pony is what their mark makes them to be. How can they be faulted for that? We are what we are. No more, no less. We have some choice about how we go ‘bout doin’ it. Yer not runnin’ on a bloody spree, loppin’ off heads and leavin’ a trail of mayhem and bodies in yer wake. You made due with what yer given, and that’s to be respected.”

Surprised, Nut could not believe his good fortune. “I wish more ponies felt that way.”

“I bet this is the last place you thought you’d find acceptance.”

This caught Nut off guard. “Mister Wainwright—”

“No, it’s true. We’re hicks. Backwards hicks. It’s alright to say it. We’re not the most tolerant, or the most open, or even the nicest ponies. My missus forsook hospitality, which I don’t abide. I done heard it said that she thinks that yer some kind of fruit, Nut. In my own experience, Canterlot unicorns, the few I’ve met, have all been just about the most snobby, most unbearable, most uptight critters to be found on Almighty Celestia’s green earth… but you don’t strike me as one of them. I’m glad to have met you, Nut… and it is my hope that you feel the same way ‘bout me and Tater. I’m glad that we defied expectations.”

At a loss for words, Nut sat there in silence, trying to make sense of everything said.

“Pa, I’m powerful shocked.”

“Well, you should be, Spudlet.”

Truth be told, Nut was as well. It was a relief, actually, to have some acceptance outside of his family. Hickory wasn’t a pony to mince words or dance around the truth; every encounter so far leading up to this one proved this to be true. Nut found himself respecting Tater Blossom’s father, and hoped that the feeling was mutual.

“It is the will of the Almighty Celestia to be hospitable. Charitable. Turn nopony in need aside. In all things you do, be good, and right, and true.”

“Tater Blossom?” Caught off guard, Hickory’s head snapped around to have a better look at his daughter.

“Them’s the words, right? Did I quote ‘em right, Pa?”

“I think you did, Spudlet. What’s gotten into you all a-sudden?”

“Bein’ hospitable is one of the big commandments, ain’t it?”

“Yeah, Spudlet… bein’ hospitable is one of the Big Seven, ‘cause it falls under the Virtues. Kindness, and being generous.” Hickory blinked. “Baby, what'reya doin’ right now?”

“Pa, what’s the punishment for breakin’ one of the commandments of the Almighty Celestia?”

Hickory’s expression (and words for that matter) turned deadpan. “A whippin’.” A second later he asked, “Spudlet, Daddy wants to know, what’reya doin’?”

“I has me a hypothesis I’m ‘bout to put to the test, Pa.” Lifting her hoof, Tater Blossom rubbed her growling stomach. “I’m followin’ a method. I’m having myself a scrootenanny.”

“Spudlet, what in Almighty Celestia’s green earth is a scrootenanny?”

“Ask Nut, he can explain it better than I can. But I have to see if my data is true. Pa, did Ma really fersake hospitality?”

Nut suddenly found that his clothing, all of it, was quite itchy, which flummoxed him.

“I… Spudlet… that’s not… you…” Hickory’s withers sagged. “She did, Potato Blossom. Yer Ma forsook hospitality. I ain’t ‘bout to lie about it. I said it myself just a bit ago.”

“So, Ma, she done broke her a commandment.”

“Yeah, Tater.” Hickory’s expression sank and his stony face sagged. “She did that.”

Tater Blossom’s jaw muscles firmed, and her chubby cheeks rounded. Both ears pricked, a position of high alert, and when her eyes narrowed, a previously unknown demeanour showed itself for the first time on her face. Nut didn’t like it, he didn’t like it at all, and he suspected that Hickory didn’t care much for it either.

“Well, I done reckon Ma is due one hidin’, Pa. And I already know you won’t do it, so it falls on me. Because for a sin to go uncorrected, that’s a sin too, and that needs punishin’. I suppose I’ll be dealin’ with you later, Pa.”

“Now, Potato Blossom, don’t you even—”

“Don’t you make this worse on yourself, Pa. Ain’t that what you tell me? You sinned. Time fer ya to answer for it, with yer hide or the sweat of yer brow. But I’ll deal with you later. Right now, Ma’s got a hidin’ due. Ain’t that what you want from me? To obey and follow the whims of the Almighty Celestia? Without question or falterin’? Ain’t it my place to obey and never raise my voice in disobedience? Are you gonna stop me from doin’ what must be done? Is you a backslider, Pa?”

Hickory’s silence spoke entire volumes.

Without another word, young Potato Blossom stomped off. Nut thought about stopping her, but he didn’t dare. Was this his fault? Could he be held responsible for this? She’d hadn’t eaten her lunch and was leaving on an empty stomach. This was dreadful, and awful, and there were just no words to convey his horror at what he was sure to be the outcome.

“Mister Wainwright, I’m not one to tell others what to do, but shouldn’t you do something?”

The earth pony sighed, his neck sagged, and he seemed to age suddenly. He offered up a gentle shake of his head, sighed, and then said, “This has been a long time coming. What’ll be, will be. Who’s to say this isn’t the will of the Almighty Celestia herself? As it is, I think I’ll stick this out and hope for leniency.”

“You’re going to let his happen,” Nut said, his manner going quite stern and a bit cold.

“Blaue has done a whole lot of sowin’, and the time for harvest has come ‘round at last. Now for the reapin’. Far be it from me to interfere in the natural order of things.”

“Mister Wainwright—”

“Eat yer lunch, Nut. Butte Russet went through a lot of trouble. Do me a favour, Nut?”

“What is it that you require, good sir?”

“When my daughter comes back this way, look after her. Patch her up if necessary. I’ll have supplies brought out. I need to go, Nut. I have me some thinkin’ to do ‘bout my sins. Celestia’s vengeance comes in many forms, Nut. Be wary. It might be a mild-mannered Canterlot unicorn that comes along to shake everything up, or it could be a daughter pushed a bit too far. Everything we do comes back ‘round again, Nut. the sun rises and sets, comes back ‘round, and rises again. It always comes back around. So be the will of the Almighty Celestia.”

“Will you do nothing?”

“Tater Blossom is a precious fruit left too long on the vine, Nut. What was once a promising harvest has since rotted a bit.”

“Mister Wainwright… Hickory, you must—”

“I don’t dodge my debts, Nut. Now, with Potato Blossom, that filly deserves her revenge. And Blaue… Blaue deserves what she’s got comin’.” Hickory cleared his throat. “I need to go, Nut. Have lunch. Try not to worry. Potato Blossom, she’s big filly. Things’ll work out, one way or another.”

“But Mister Wainwright—”

“Good day, Nut. I’ll have supper brought out. Might be for the best that you avoid the house, Nut. I wish we’d been more hospitable. Yer a good feller, Nut. Don’t interfere. It’s time for Potato Blossom to grow up, one way or another.”

Then, without further ado, Hickory departed, and he whistled a sad, forlorn tune to himself as he left.

Author's Note

Hey little Tater Blossom
What seems to be the problem?
All the ones you tell your troubles to
They don't really care for you

Come and tell me what you're thinking
Cause just when the boat is sinking

A little light is blinking
And I will come and rescue you

Lots of girls walk around in tears
But that's not for you

Hickory is a tough character to write. He really is. I wish I could tell you how much trouble his nuanced complexity causes me. In some ways, Hickory is the reader; an observer. All he can do is watch. So there is a lot of shared frustration and character association.

Shall we discuss what is about to go down? Debate its merits? What is wrong, and what is right? The story's primary conflict has reached its head, and if I did my job right, there should be something of a moral morass. It's hard to say who is right or wrong in this situation.

Where do you stand?

What does your stance say about you?

The outcome is already decided, the ending is already set in stone... but I must ask, what outcome do you hope for? What do you wish to see? What is a satisfactory end? What is deserved, and who deserves it?

Chapter 6

There was nothing left to do but wait, and when so faced with such a task, Nut waited. Always one to keep busy, he did his job. While he waited, he drew more sketches, this time going into extraordinary depth and detail, with speculative drawings of what he guessed the bone structure to be—though with trolls, they had more of an internal hardwood structure than bone, but it served the same function, really.

When he wasn’t sketching, he was writing, and when he could not find the words to jot down, he returned to the creation of highly detailed anatomical depictions done in both pencil and ink. The day felt far too long for his liking, and as the afternoon progressed, Nut found himself in quite a rotten state of mind.

The urge to leave his post and to visit Tater Blossom’s home was overwhelming. He could sort this out—but to what end, and how? With violence? Something told him that he was not welcome here—his every instinct screamed to warn him—and he suspected that if he confronted the problem directly, things would take a turn for the worse. The idea of hurting these ponies left him queasy. They would foolishly attack him, and he would be forced to defend himself. These ponies would be quite unprepared for that.

No, going to check on Tater Blossom wasn’t an option.

With nothing left to do, with nothing that could be done, Nut waited.

How long had he been writing in his journal, unawares? Not about trolls, no, or about his findings here on the farm, but about everything that had happened. Every detail that he was aware of, at least from his own perspective, his own observations, all of which had been committed to page. A prolonged, slow blink happened, and he attempted to collect his thoughts. How long had he spaced out?

With a sigh, he lifted up his sketch pad, opened it, and saw Tater Blossom. Not just Tater Blossom, no, but her anatomy. Muscles, bones, internal cross sections. He’d drawn her naked. Well, more naked then as was typical. As he stared at the impressively detailed depiction of her skull, eyes, and brain, Nut wondered what he was doing here, in this terrible place. This… this was Raven’s doing. A word would be had with her later, perhaps.

Did Celestia know?

She had to know.

Nut suspected that Celestia knew, because Celestia had to know.

Celestia was just that kind of mare.

Had he been sent here as a catalyst?

Was he Celestia’s Metatron, at least in this instance?

Such a notion was preposterous, and yet, it could not be denied that Celestia worked in mysterious ways. This revelation left him snorting, his sides heaving, and he very much wanted a pint. No, two pints. Perhaps four. Delicious pints of Black Maple Ale. The smoked Black Maple Ale was comfort in a mug. As was so often the case, when he thought of Black Maple Ale, he thought of Black Maple, the randy no-nonsense pegasus mare who owned the Tapped Sap Pub.

He very much wanted to talk to her, even if she annoyed him to no end.

She would have answers. It didn’t matter that she was a brewer, or that her mark was an alcohol molecule; Black Maple knew ponies. She understood them in a way that he did not. When some poor soul dragged themselves through her door, crushed by life and ill-fortune, she would greet them and say, “Alcohol is a fitting solution for all your troubles.”

He hated the joke, it was terrible.

She was terrible.

But right now, he needed her advice.

Nut thought of his mother and father. He thought of his aunt, his mother’s sister, who was very dear to him. And Pod… surely, Pod would know what to say and do in this situation. Why, Pod was something of a troublemaker. She had a sarcastic streak as wide as the Ghastly Gorge. Pod… was… mouthy. Oh, not mouthy in the ways of the crude commoner, no. Pod was no sheathed sword. It could be said that she was a beautifully bound dictionary that could kill with papercuts.

Family matters were distressing, perhaps because his own family was so tight-knit.

His sketchbook snapped shut with a dull thud and his eyes wandered over to Susan. His umbrella was the only thing that made any sense. From her impeccable construction, to her mechanical precision, to her fine heft and balance, right down to the almost metre-long blade that could be called forth in an instant.

Since he could no longer trust pen nor pencil, Nut began to pace.

Nut did not know the approaching mare, who seemed fearful and timid. He resisted the powerful urge to interrogate her. Something about her shared similarity with Tater Blossom. Ruddy red colouration, orange eyes, but this mare’s mane was more golden than greenish-yellow.

No, she was quite beyond fearful, she was terrified. Of him? Now, everything felt so much worse. So many unknowns, so many things that needed sorting out. He needed answers, and the temptation to demand them from this mare were almost overwhelming. Surely, she had to know something. She could be made to tell. Nut reigned himself in, not at all caring for his thoughts, which he felt were a bit too entitled noble for his tastes.

With that in mind, he maintained his calm, deadpan expression, even though he was seething on the inside. He didn’t smile; he couldn’t smile. Any emotion of any sort, any type, it would be his undoing. The dam would give way, the levees would break, and then the flood cometh forth. He paused in place, no longer pacing, and adopted a rigid, well-bred posture, the very sort of posture expected from the upper crust of Canterlot.

A few yards away, the mare halted, set down the basket she carried in her mouth, and then stood there, pawing the ground. She’d been crying and she wore the sort of expression that one wore to a funeral. All thoughts of interrogation left Nut’s mind, and he found that he wanted to go over and comfort this poor creature, though his skills at doing so were rather, well, lacking. In the past, his attempts at comforting females, with Pod as a fine example, had never gone right.

No, comforting her would surely make things worse.

Distracted now, Nut tried not to think of the untimely death of Pod’s hamster.

Suggesting taxidermy for the sake of a long lasting companion proved a terrible idea.

“My Pa wanted this brought,” the young mare said to Nut.

“What… what has—”

“Don’t ask, outsider.”

“But I need to know,” he said while trying to be as polite as possible.

“This here is the reason why outsiders shouldn’t be here,” the young mare said as some of her sorrow transformed into anger. “You come here and you upset things. You don’t respect our way of life, or how we do things. Ponies like you come here and mess with our way of thinkin’. You turn us against each other. You come here and the iniquity and the wickedness of the world comes with you. I didn’t want to come here, but I obeyed my Pa, as is right, and proper, and true.”

“What about Tater Blossom? Is she okay?”

“Who?”

Nut found himself suddenly unsettled. “What do you mean, ‘who’? Surely you must know your own sister. What sort of game is being played here? What is going on?”

“I have no sister of that name.” The mare’s body shuddered, she hitched, and an awful sobbing sound could be heard deep within her throat. “Yer mistaken.”

“Miss, if you could please—”

“I done did what my Pa asked me to do. I’ll be off now. I must be going.”

“But Miss, I just need a moment—”

“No.” She backed away, fearful. “I gotta go.”

For a moment, Nut wasn’t sure if he would let her leave. He wanted answers. She was already retreating, moving backwards, never taking her eyes off of him, as if she knew his ill-intentions. It wouldn’t take much to tap into her terror and make her talk. She could be made to talk. If she didn’t want to give answers, they could be taken.

Swallowing, Nut found that he was thoroughly disgusted with himself. He made himself breathe, a deep breath that made his joints jostle against themselves while causing electric tingles to go shooting through his nerves. Restraining himself, he allowed her to go, and departing, she never once took her eyes off of him. The fact that she was so frightened of him left him unhinged, unsettled, and shaken. Far too many commoners had been abused by nobles, and echoes from the past were now quite audible in his rigid ears.

She vanished up the narrow cart-wide lane, and Nut was, once again, alone.

With the shadows long and twilight fast approaching, Nut found himself in a fitful, frightful state. When he wasn’t anxiously lost in worry for his friend, he would berate himself for his dreadful thoughts. Such chastisement was necessary, because said thoughts were unwanted, unacceptable. What would his mother say? His father? There would be raised eyebrows and well-deserved harrumphs that would put him in his place.

There existed two Equestrias; perhaps more. Yes, there were more. It wasn’t a matter of urban and rural division, he realised. Ponyville was rural, but was also quite enlightened. Vanhoover, his current home, was urban, but lacked sophistication. Canterlot was the epitome of urban sophistication and enlightenment. The city of his birth was a beacon atop a spire of rock that cast a fierce light for all the world to see.

This place was an isolated pocket, an island of ignorance in a sea of light. For all of Equestria’s many problems, it surely had to be a place of light. Widowwood was not the Equestrian standard. It couldn’t be. Vanhoover had been a bitter disappointment, but it had its charms. It had hope, and promise, and potential. It was a dirty, dingy, disgusting city with filthy streets clogged with trash, and it could be said that the sun made itself scarce in the skies overhead to spite all those who lived below—but there was good to be found in Vanhoover.

And there was good to be found here, Nut reminded himself.

Hickory wasn’t a bad sort, and Potato Blossom, she was brimming with endless potential.

As he sat down in the grass beneath the shade of the wellhouse and the water tower, he thought of Vanhoover. The university there had accepted him, and had done so without knowing of his parentage and peerage. He’d been accepted solely because of his own merits, though who and what he was, that was revealed soon enough. In Vanhoover, he struggled, just as the commoners struggled. He lived without his family’s fortune. Survival meant taking every job, every task that offered payment, and somehow scraping by in an existential proving ground that was hostile to his every need.

Only the strong survived, and Nut had at least proven himself fit.

Just living in Vanhoover was an education into and of itself.

Seasons meant a change in what time of the day it rained. It could freeze in the summer, or be balmy and warm in the winter. The rains… the rains remained constant and unceasing. One was always wet, always damp. Chill was a constant companion. Flooded streets and slick cobblestones made for sodden, soggy frogs. Hooves were left softened from the omnipresent moisture that infused every conceivable surface.

Perhaps he was a masochist, but Nut had grown rather fond of it.

Now he was here. In this place. Widowwood, a place that could barely be found on the map. Had he come here fresh from Canterlot, this might have gone differently. Gone badly. Living in Vanhoover, trying to prove that he was fit to survive, that had changed him. Though, in what way, he could not say. But it allowed him to survive this place, and to endure the tumultuous events he now found himself swept up in.

Come what may, he would survive this, though he worried for Potato Blossom.

“I am a sheathed sword.” Nut’s lips barely moved as he murmured these words to himself. “I am the folded umbrella that unfurls in the rain. Whatever storm may come, I will weather.” As he said these words, stones orbited his head, as well as a variety of objects, all of which were held aloft by his focused telekinesis. Everything moved at its own speed and he was forced to concentrate upon each object to maintain its orbit.

“I am a sheathed sword.” Repeating the words, he pushed his focus inwards and opened his inner eye. “I am the folded umbrella that unfurls in the rain.” A deep breath. “Whatever storm may come, I will weather.” Another stone was lifted from the ground, and it joined orbit with the others. Round and round it went, circling his head with the other objects.

“I am a sheathed sword.” Again, he said the words, and they felt right, they felt good and true. “I am the folded umbrella that unfurls in the rain.” One more stone was levitated from the ground and set to move in a wide, almost elliptical orbit. “Whatever storm may come, I will weather.”

He drew a deep breath.

Eyes closed, his body unmoving except for the steady rise and fall of his ribs, he said, “It is not yet raining.”

Vanhoover was a city of rain. While the clouds threatened this place, not a drop had fallen. Not yet. He would remain patient. While he could move against these poor farmers and find the answers he craved, they did not deserve such fate, such terror. Even with his calmest, most composed demeanour, he could only be a threat to them now. To go and seek answers would do them harm.

“I am a sheathed sword.” One ear, his right ear, twitched, and when it did, several stones in orbit wobbled. “I am the folded umbrella that unfurls in the rain.” The orbiting stones smoothed out. “Whatever storm may come, I will weather.”

The blue alicorn was as tall as she was wise, though not as tall as her sister. A unicorn colt stood rigid, unmoving, at attention, his drawn sword at the ready. The room was cool, but he was warm, his blood sang, his ears were filled with bees, and his heart threatened to come smashing out of his ribs.

He aspired to be as serene as the face of the blue alicorn.

“You are troubled.”

He opened up his mouth to refute this fact, but she had more to say.

“I have seen your dreams, little one. Your cries of pain have pricked mine ears.”

Ashamed, fearful, his rigid posture failed him. His sword trembled. She could see right through him. Of course she could see right through him. She was the Night Lady. The Princess of the Night. She was the Eternal Moon and the fount from which all dreams came. And now, she was here, looking down upon him, and he was too ashamed to look upon her perfect, beautiful, flawless face.

“Tell me, little one. Tell me in your own words what troubles you, for your dreams remain a jumble of confusion.”

It was difficult to hold the sword now. The wood had become curiously slippery for some reason, and it took every ounce of his focus to keep it aloft. But he would keep it aloft, for the sword was a part of him, in very much the same sort of way that his horn was a part of him. It was an extension of his very being, and this, this troubled him.

“I hear the whispers,” he said, whispering in much the same way he heard others do when speaking of him.

“And what of these whispers?” the Night Lady asked.

Almost frozen in terror, with his heart creeping up his tight throat, the colt shivered. “The whispers say I shouldn’t exist. That I am dangerous. The whispers say I should be put away now, before the worst happens.”

“And do you believe these whispers?” she asked.

“Mothers pull their foals away from me,” he replied with his eyes now straight ahead. “I am a stranger in my own city. A safe distance is kept between myself and the others. All of my playmates have abandoned me.”

“What else?” The voice of the Night Lady was soft, alluring, almost a call to slumber.

“I am not yet named. I have no mark. I fear I serve no purpose, but to be a weapon.”

“Swords have names,” the Night Lady said, “but I suppose this is cold comfort. Only the finest weapons receive their maker’s mark.”

“Is there none finer?” he asked. “Otherwise, why is such terror warranted?”

When the big blue alicorn sighed, the colt very much wanted to melt into the floor.

“I think,” the Night Lady began, “that you are allowing your fear to rule you.”

“What could you possibly know about my fear?” As his composure broke, the wooden training sword clattered to the floor and bounced away. “Everypony is terrified of me. My gift has proven itself a curse.”

The colt dared to look up, and then immediately wished he hadn’t. Towering over him, the Night Lady and her furious, stormy eyes were focused fully upon him, and he wasn’t sure if he would survive her scrutinous inspection. His bowels squelched, his stomach gurgled, and for a few seconds, he was certain that his terror would come flowing out behind him.

But, the Night Lady did not shout. Her fury did not strike him dead. In fact, when she spoke again, her voice was low, and her words were slow. “You are too young to understand, to know. Your schooling has not yet taught you, but I assure you, I know and understand what it means to have others fear you. There are many who fear my very shadow. But that is neither here nor there. I am here to help you deal with your fear, so it does not become your weakness. Fear is a sickness, and if left untreated, becomes a wasting disease.”

“I’m sick?”

“Yes.” The Night Lady’s head bobbed up and down. “I see it in your dreams.”

“How do I get better?” he asked.

“Well”—the Night Lady extended one wing and it wrapped around the colt’s neck—“you have to control your fear, so that your fear cannot control you. If you let it, fear will be your undoing. It can and will be the undoing of everything you hold dear. Trust me, this I know, little one. Are you ready to begin your lesson?”

Grim-faced, the colt fetched his sword from the floor, raised it, and held it at the ready.

With a glittery burst of magic, the Night Lady conjured up a pile of pebbles, and these were allowed to fall to the floor. Wearing the same grim expression as the colt in her care, she pawed at the pebbles with her silver-shod hoof, cleared her throat, and then lowered her head so that she might look the colt in the eye.

“I will teach you something to say,” she said to him. “And you will say it. Once you have said it, you will lift up a pebble, and you will make it fly around your head, just like how the moon circles around the planet on which we stand. You will then say it again, and when you do, another stone will be set into motion. This will be repeated, until such a time that your fear is brought under control. It will take concentration. See how many stones you might maintain all at once. Strive for command, for dominance over your emotions. You must banish fear, lest it rule you. Are you ready to begin?”

Wooden sword held at the ready, he nodded.

“I am the sheathed sword,” the Night Lady murmured soothingly into his ear. “I am the folded umbrella that unfurls in the rain. Whatever storm may come, I will weather.”

After licking his lips, the colt haltingly repeated what had been said. “I… I am the sheathed sword. I am the… I am the folded umbrella… that… unfurls in the rain. Whatever storm might—may come, I will weather.”

“Very good, little one.” The Night Lady’s praise was sincere. “Now, lift up a stone, and set it into motion. Surely you can do that. Place your fear into that stone. Allow it to circle you. Control it.”

Following her instructions, the colt lifted up a small, smooth pebble, and then imagined putting his fear into it. It was visualisation, the same thing that one did when one channeled magic and cast spells. The fear was shoved right in, and then, after a few tries, the small rounded pebble was placed into motion around his head. Round and round it circled, the little pebble crammed full of his fear. He kept it at a distance.

“Now, little one, repeat the words. This time, say them with meaning. Pour your heart into them. It is good to show emotion. Allow yourself your feelings. You are not a cold blade, little one, but a foal, warm with life. Now do as you are bid, and say the words.”

“I am the sheathed sword.” It was a struggle to keep the stone in motion, but he managed. “I am the folded umbrella that unfurls in the rain. Whatever storm may come, I will weather.”

“Very good, little one. Now, take up another stone, and say those words again. This time, with feeling!”

“I am a sheathed sword.” Dozens and dozens of small stones, as well as a few notebooks orbited around Nut’s head. Some moved slow, some moved fast, but fine control was maintained over all of them. “I am the folded umbrella that unfurls in the rain. Whatever storm may come, I will weather.”

Another stone was added.

Just as it picked up speed, he sensed something on the vague edges of perception. He was being watched. Opening his eyes, he almost dropped everything when he saw Tater Blossom, who was holding a book in her mouth. Then, he noticed her condition, and the orbits could not survive his sudden upset.

One eye was swollen shut. Both ears were quite enlarged. Lumps and bumps could be seen jutting out everywhere. In the silvery moonlight, he saw her every awful wound in terrible, awful detail. But the lessons of long ago held true, his convictions remained resolute, and his first thoughts were not of violence, nor retribution.

What set him in motion was compassion and pity.

As he sped towards her, she limped to him, and he reached her in mere seconds. He pulled the book from her mouth, saw that it was stained and bloodied, and then he heard her say, “Can I get a drink of water?”

Her voice was a ragged parody of its former self, and hearing it pained him.

Holding her book aloft, Nut listened to her soft, pained pants. Both nostrils were almost swollen shut. Her lips were lumpy, misshapen, and scabbed. He expected himself to feel anger, fury would feel normal right now, but he was oddly calm as he led her over to the wellhouse, so that she might get a drink.

“I bled on my book. Can ya fix it? It’s all I have right now.”

He nodded; try as he might, words would not come.

At the wellhouse, he turned the valve that allowed the water to flow, and he adjusted it until it was a slow but steady trickle. She thrust her whole head beneath the flow, and he turned the valve just a little more so she could soak her head. Her mane was plastered to her face, ears, and neck. She stood there for quite some time with her head held in the flowing water, and Nut waited, allowing her time to recover herself.

The stained book was set down upon his suitcase desk.

Some of her scabs softened from the water and Nut watched with concern. He would need to patch her up—but he also needed to know what had happened. Overhead, the moon seemed to brighten a bit, and the increased light allowed him to see Tater Blossom’s wounds in great detail. He marvelled that she was standing at all, and had to remind himself that earth ponies were remarkably hardy creatures.

Tater Blossom sat down and held her drenched head beneath the cascading water. Thin rivulets poured down her back, leaving behind streaks of cleanliness, free of dust. Nut practically hovered over her, calm but pained, his face a grim mask of duty. He had his work cut out for him. He could patch up Tater Blossom’s physical wounds easily enough…

But it was the wounds he could not see that troubled him.

Author's Note

More will be known. Be patient. These chapters are much larger than normal.

Chapter 7

Removal of the bloodstain from the book caused an immediate problem; that spot was far too clean, and the rest of the book was far too dirty. The hardbound novel was tattered, worn, had a sagging binding, and was no doubt stained from many hours held in hooves. It was a loved book, that much was obvious. Whatever slipcover it once had was long gone, but the book’s title could be seen on its spine.

Pinkie Pie: Element of Laughter.

He opened it up to have a look inside, saw that it was written by one Marble Pie, and while his eyes lingered upon the fine gothic print, he wondered if there was some relation. Overhead, the moon kept watch and Nut was thankful for the silvery light it offered. Tater had pulled her head out from beneath the faucet and was now allowing herself to drip dry. Realising just how much Tater loved this book, and that it was now her sole possession, Nut felt the need to be generous, to be kind, to do something nice.

Teeth gritted together, lips pressed into a firm line, he cast a repair spell, which he was rather good at. The results relieved him, and lifted his spirits just a bit. Right away, the book’s slack binding tightened up, almost all of the dirt vanished, scuffs on the hardbound cover went away, and right before his very eyes, the book was restored to nearly-new condition.

Satisfied, he placed the book back down upon his suitcase desk.

Well, that was one thing sorted out.

“What happened?” he asked, overcoming his hesitation, worry, fear, and doubt if the time was right for questions.

Tater Blossom winced and hunched over a bit more. He heard her whimper, but he doubted that the sound was caused by physical pain. No, she was well beyond that. He had no doubt that her physical pain had to be excruciating, but that wasn’t what was hurting her at the moment. Her wounds—both visible and invisible—were quite raw.

Opening up the basket that had been brought earlier, he decided that now was as good a time as any to patch her up. There was a lot of work to do, unpleasant work, but at least he had her trust. Or so he hoped. As he lifted up a container of salve, he thought of Black Maple. What would she say about this? Why did it matter to him what she might say? He found himself overwhelmed by peculiar feelings. His relationship with Black Maple was… confusing.

But there were times, like right now, when he wondered what she might think, or how she might feel. Black Maple was an exceptionally common pony, with a keen commoner’s mind, and she possessed a clear, unobstructed understanding of how commoners thought and acted. Nut relied on her to keep him straight, he realised, and this sudden conclusion troubled him, though he could not say why.

Well supplied, he went over to her, sat down, and began his examination of her so that he could determine where to start. She had many cuts and contusions, and in some places the swelling was such that the skin had either split open or threatened to do so. He decided that he would start with her face. With a light touch of his telekinesis, he began to gingerly feel around so that he would have a better idea of what needed to be done.

“Mama got the whippin’ she deserved,” Tater Blossom said as Nut began his examination. “I crept up on her unawares with a switch. I knew just what to pick, ‘cause I done spent my whole life pickin’ switches so I could get my rightful hidin’. One might say I have a knack for pickin’ switches. For a time, I had bad dreams that I’d get a cutie mark for pickin’ switches.”

With a dire frown, Nut wickered, and it rumbled up and down his throat.

“She hollered, course she did, and then she fought back. We scuffled, and as it turns out, while I don’t hit as hard as she does, I’m faster, and so I started a-winnin’ our slobberknocker. But Mama’s a sore loser, and so she calls fer help, and the next thing I know, my sisters and my aunts are all taken turns beatin’ the stuffin’ outta me.”

Firm-jawed, Nut began applying the medicinal smelling balm to the cut just below Tater Blossom’s eye. She winced, he paused, and waited for her to recover. When she leaned in, he had a chance to look into her open eye, deep into its orange depths. Within it, he could see himself and the moon reflected.

“One of my aunts came to save me, but she’s not my Mama’s sister, but my Pa’s. She picks up a piece of firewood from by the stove, and she lays right into my Ma and everybody else thumpin’ on me. Then came the shoutin’, and the hollerin’, and the screamin’ ‘bout the windigos a-comin’ back, all on account of the discord I brought into the house, and you, and everything that was a-happenin’. After that, things got outta hoof.”

Tenderly, he applied more medicine to the cut beneath her eye. Windigos? As far as he knew, windigos were an extinct species. But he supposed they made a suitable threat for the superstitious types, a spooky-scary motivation to keep the peace. To be quiet. A fine bit of discouragement so a ruckus was not raised.

“There was a moot,” she explained while Nut continued his careful ministrations. “We all got dragged there. We had us a moot, and I was tried, and in the end, I was shunned. And that’s fine, I reckon. I got shunned, and Ma and Pa, they got shamed, because that’s what happens to the parents of a shunned pony. Ma lost all of her positions, and she ain’t allowed to preach no more, or teach, or be librarian, or mayor. She’s shamed, so she don’t get to do nuttin’ but be reminded of how she failed me. Pa got a little leniency, because he came right out and said that Mama sinned, that she done gossipped and forsook hospitality.”

What had been said earlier when the young mare brought out the basket now made sense to Nut. Oh, he didn’t like it, not at all, and he didn’t agree with these sorts of practices, but this was their way, not his. On the other hoof, actual harm had been done—real, serious harm. He didn’t know how to feel about it, though a part of him wanted these practices to end. Though, not all who engaged in these practices were bad sorts. A sour taste clung to the back of his tongue and his throat was hot with bile.

He needed a pint.

“His sister got shamed too, ‘cause she took my Ma’s ear off with that log. Everypony hates everypony. Everypony hates me. I’m shunned. Cast out. I don’t have a name no more, or parents, or a place to live. I’ll be scrubbed from the records and it’ll be like I was never born. I s’pose I should feel bad about it, but… I just… feel… free.”

Nut sighed.

“I ain’t s’posed to be here now,” she said, whispering suddenly. “I was dragged outta town and told to go on up the road. But I snuck back around this-a-way once it got dark.”

“I think your father expected this. He had one of your sisters bring supplies.”

A tear rolled down her cheek, and Nut turned away, unable to bear the sight. Ignorance had a cost. A tangible cost and he’d borne witness to it. He suspected that Tater Blossom was being brave, and in reality, she was far more torn up inside than she let on. But he admired her bravery, her courage, and her pluck.

“Mister Nut… take me with you.”

He paused, and with a turn of his head, returned his gaze to her.

“Please, I ain’t go nowhere to go. I’m scared. Whatever you ask of me, I’ll do. Just be kind to me, that’s all I ask.”

These words caused his brows to furrow. He didn’t like it, not at all, but he understood desperation. There were some who would certainly take advantage of this situation—and truth be told, he wouldn’t be too bothered by indulging his talent upon them. A great weight settled upon his brow; not an unseen crown, the spectre of which was said to haunt royalty, but a circlet perhaps. His father had warned him of this, that there would be moments in his life when he took notice of it.

“I’d rather end up with you,” she said, her lower lip quivering, “if’n I have to end up with somepony.”

“Enough of that talk.” Though his words were stern, his tone was kind. “Look, I don’t know about this. About you coming with me.”

Raising her hoof, she pointed at the now restored book. “Pinkie Pie left home when she was half my age. I shoulda done the same. But I was scared. All my life, I was told stories about how wicked the world was, and what outsiders would do to me if they caught me. But Pinkie left home, and she found the Cakes, and she was fine. And I wish I was braver, so I’d’ve found my Cakes, but I was a chicken.”

“From the sounds of it, you’re still scared.”

“Well, yeah, I am. I was trapped, Nut. I still am. My thinkin’ is all messed up.”

Again, he sighed.

“My thinker is broken.” Tater Blossom leaned in until their noses bumped, and she let out a muffled, muted whimper before she continued, “I know my thinker is broken, because Pinkie Pie sees the world as this big, wonderful, beautiful place, and I want to believe her, but I can’t. So something must be broken. I needs to fix it so I can be normal. Please, Nut… I’m beggin’ ya, take me with you. Please?”

When she clutched his foreleg and squeezed with her powerful grip, he found himself startled by the unexpected grab. Somehow, she was still very much a filly, but also a young mare. It confused him that she could be so much of both, and he found his heart and mind being pulled in two very different directions.

“I am a pauper—”

“Then I’ll work, Nut.”

“You need to be in school.” He was surprised by how stern he sounded. “Not working. Committing yourself to the drudgery of labour would be detrimental to the advancement of your intellectual and mental development.”

“Could ya try speakin’ Equestrian, Nut?”

“My point exactly. I am speaking Equestrian, Miss Blossom.”

She was still clinging to his foreleg, squeezing almost too tightly.

“I am a pauper,” he began again. “I live in a room above a carriage house and do odd jobs in lieu of paying rent. Mrs. Oleander prefers it that way.”

“So you work, but you also go to school.”

“I suppose I do,” he remarked.

“What do you do fer her?”

“I clean the soot from the lanterns. The brass is maintained and polished. All of the carriages are properly serviced, greased, and kept in good repair. Oh, and I don’t use magic for these repairs, because we can’t have the carriages falling apart. These are special carriages. Limousines. Hearses. Mrs. Oleander engages with exceptional clients who have the most exacting standards. If there is so much as a smudge or a loose, rattling door, it would go badly for her.”

“So she’s fussy.”

“She has to be, Miss Blossom.” He paused, thoughtful, and then began to rub a bit of salve on Tater Blossom’s nose. “Come to think of it, she does have a spare room. Now, these rooms are not heated. They’re not actual apartments. These rooms are drafty, chilly, and during inclement weather, they can be… somewhat unpleasant. I am positive that Mrs. Oleander would allow you to stay, but she would expect work from you in return. The room has been posted for quite some time now, but as of the day I left, there have been no takers.”

A part of him wondered what he was doing, and why he was considering this.

Just what was he thinking, anyhow?

Vanhoover was a rough place. A hard place. What was he thinking, taking a naive farm filly to such a place? Fillies like her ended up in Vanhoover and suffered all manner of unwholesome fates. She would be a hen left among the foxes. He would have to watch her. Constantly. The apex predators would sniff her out as prey. If he did this, he would have to protect her… What For would have to be given, and freely. If that failed, sterner measures would have to be taken. Pip-Pip What’s All This Then might be necessary.

“Once, when I was just starting university, I took a job to assist the city archives.” His brow furrowed a bit and the hard edge of his brass-framed monocle pressed into his cheek. “They had an infestation of mimics. Book mimics. Magical predators that disguised themselves to look just like books. City record books, in this instance. Nothing went quite as planned, but everything was sorted out. I was paid quite handsomely. Dealing with the book mimics gave me a bit of a reputation, which was just what I needed to establish myself. I dare say the experience contributed to my education.”

“So can I come with you?” she asked.

He was not surprised by her single-mindedness and her determination.

“How old are you?” He looked her right in the eye and would not allow her to look away.

“Old enough to be shunned and tossed outta town.”

“If you want to come with me, it would behoove you to answer me. With honesty.”

She squirmed, but he did not let her look away. This would not do. There were times when being headstrong was a hindrance, such as now. She had to know that her answer might cause some friction. While the contest of wills stretched out, he applied a bit of the medicated balm to a cut on the corner of her mouth, and she hissed, no doubt from the stinging pain.

“Old enough to be married. I’m an adult.”

“Miss Blossom—”

“I don’t even have a name no more. That was taken from me. I’m a nopony.”

“No distractions, Miss Blossom. What is your age?”

“I’m thirteen, alright? It’s embarrassing being this old and having nothing to show for it.”

“Oh. I say.” Mindful of his monocle and how it liked to slip away from him, he gave this number careful consideration as he applied still more medicine to another place of injury. Fourteen was old enough to join the guard, due to the First Tribes. Most of Equestria was attempting to push the age of adulthood to a somewhat higher number, though nopony could agree as to what that number should be.

Or if there should be a number at all.

Ponies would think terrible things of him. Accusations would be slung about. This could very well hurt his reputation, his credibility. The most progressive voices could be the most intolerant, at least at times. In this place, with these ponies, no one would bat an eye if they were together. Such a thing was expected. But in other places, with other ponies, things could be misconstrued.

Nut knew he would have to face these things—if he did this.

She was still gripping his foreleg, and when he applied still more medicine, he felt her squeezing. He found it remarkable just how determined she was—how brave she was. She had done something quite foolish, or perhaps it wasn’t. Who was he to judge? Perhaps there were factors he was unaware of. Maybe, just maybe, she felt a need to prove herself, just as he did.

“I want my Pa,” she whined. “In the end, he did right, and it cost him.”

Nut’s ears fell into a splayed position, jutting out sideways from his head.

“Hold me, please.”

Quite without warning, she flung her forelegs around his neck, and he was very nearly bowled over by her sudden embrace. She was strong—but also gentle. Slowly, cautiously, he raised one foreleg, and unsure of himself, not wanting to bring her harm in any way, he gingerly slipped it around her neck.

“I did it ‘cause I thought you’d take me with you,” she said.

Did he praise her for her honesty, or chide her for her foolishness? He didn’t know. Very little made sense right now. She clung to him, and he to her, and he could feel the hitch in her barrel as she fought to contain her sobs. Just what was he to do with her? He barely kept his own head above water. School and basic survival were almost enough to drag him under.

“Am I a mare now?” she asked, her words muffled and somewhat slurred. “See, I don’t even know. Things seem so blurry. They always have. It seemed so easy for everypony else I knew, everypony else ‘round me. Day suddenly became night. It was like where a row of taters ended and a row of carrots started. But for myself, I never seemed to know where things ended or started. Pa said I’d be a mare when I was married, but that ain’t happened yet. This happened. I’m shunned and sent away. If I don’t marry at all, do I stay a foal forever? Everything feels so confusing.”

“You want definition in your life.”

“Is that it?”

“Seems that way to me, but I could very well be mistaken.”

She started to pull away, but then, without warning, redoubled her embrace. He felt her shudder, he felt her sigh, and then he heard a constrained, low moan that sounded more like a sob that would not be let go of. She writhed against him and for a moment, everything was unbearable. There was far too much pain in the moment, everything was too raw to be dealt with.

Then, after a soul-rending howl of grief, the shunned filly began to bawl.

She seemed to be doing better, but Nut was no expert on these matters. He was used to the females in his own family, rational, thoughtful creatures, and this one quite defied his expectations. She was so full of emotion and in so much pain, he almost expected her to burst into tears again at any moment. This didn’t seem so irrational though, she was grieving. But he didn’t understand how normal ponies dealt with grief.

In his own family, grief was dealt with in quite a different manner. One might suddenly announce to anypony listening that they were sad, and then tea or coffee might be prepared. There would be conversation. Food would be served. Afterwards, noses would be buried back into books, and things would return to normal. That was grief and the method of processing it. If said sadness or state of sorrow was announced for a second time, stronger medicine would be sought out, such as alcohol of some type, followed by a trip to the symphony, or perhaps the museum. There would be conversation at some point… and then a return to the books, for such was their way.

“Can I come with you?” she asked around a mouthful of half-chewed food.

He did not answer, for he had no answer. Catching a train meant walking right through the heart of town, as the train platform was right in the middle of the town proper. Walking through town with Tater Blossom in his company might very well mean trouble. There’d been enough trouble in this place. Violence was the last thing he wanted. But was the one thing he was prepared for.

“You say a moot was held.”

“There was.” She swallowed, then immediately took another bite.

“Something from the democratic past of the earth ponies.” He paused to muse for a moment, to reflect upon his history lessons, and after a short period of silence he asked, “Were you given representation of any sort?”

She shrugged as she chewed and this time, she did not respond with her mouth full. After she swallowed, she said, “Pa stood up for me. That’s the worst ‘bout all of this. I don’t care what happens to my Ma, but I’m powerful worried about what this will do to my Pa.”

“Did they say what you did wrong, exactly?” He leaned forward, pulled his monocle away from his eye, sighed, and wondered to himself if he’d done a decent job of treating his companion’s wounds.

“I was violent,” she said plainly. “I was violent and I disobeyed my parents. I attacked my own mother. It wasn’t my place to punish her for her sinnin’, and I was told that I should’ve come to the elders. But my Ma, she is one of the elders, and well… maybe I didn’t think all of this through. But I did what I did. Everypony knows now that my Ma says one thing, and does another. She’s not allowed to say another word about the Way of Almighty Celestia ever again, and maybe I’m petty, but I’m happy that was taken from her.”

Then, shaking her head, she added, “There’s more.”

“More?” One fine eyebrow arched.

“I fell sway under the influence of an outsider.”

“Oh. Well then. I suppose I was blamed?” Nut found himself worrying about what might happen if a team was sent here to investigate the trolls. They would not be welcomed, he suspected, or wanted. The issue of hospitality might be an issue again. Cultures would clash. New and unwelcomed ideas would once more be presented.

As the consequences unfurled, he felt quite sad.

“I forsook the ways of my father and mother for the ways of an outsider, and that was bad of me.” Her head bowed, she sighed, and then halfheartedly nipped at her food. With her mouth full, she said, “Seems to me there was a lotta forsookin’ going on. But none of it made sense. We’re supposed to be hospitable, ‘cause that’s the Way, but at the same time, we done condemn outsiders just for existin’. We judge them just ‘cause they is different than us. And when I tried to say something about this, I got shushed. When I wouldn’t stay shushed, I got smacked, and that hurt something awful, ‘cause he done hit me where I was already hurtin’.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Why are you sorry, Nut?”

“I just am.”

“I followed the method,” she said. “I got me the proof I needed. My hypothesis has some truth to it. They gave me all the proof I needed. At the end of it all, I just wouldn’t shut up, and I done told them what I thought of them, the Way of Almighty Celestia, and their shunnin’. I told them where they could stick it. And when I was getting thumped on again, and made to be silent, I was all satisfied with the truth I done discovered.”

“This was never my intention,” he said to her as guilt nibbled upon the tender edges of his conscience. “I wanted to teach you rationality. I wanted—”

“That you wanted to teach me at all, I’m powerful grateful for that.”

He felt his words die in his throat.

“You taught me.” She blinked her unswollen, unblackened eye and licked her lumpy lips. “You gave me proof that I was worth it. That I wasn’t just some dumb hick filly. You showed me that there was something beyond just foalin’ and misery and drudgery. You taught me things… things that maybe I didn’t need to know, but you taught me, and that means so much to me. More than you’ll ever know.”

“And then you had to go and teach yourself…” Whatever else he wanted to say wouldn’t come, these words were raw and it pained him to speak them.

“Will you be my teacher?” she asked. “I think I failed this lesson. I promise to do better and not fail the next.”

“Failures happen,” he replied while he tried to ignore the pain in his heart. “We have to fail so that we might be successful. Don’t make promises like that. How we deal with our failures determines what sort of ponies we are.”

For some reason, he found himself thinking of Black Maple; there were a whole string of failures for him to reflect upon. Why, he didn’t even know how to begin. Returning to Vanhoover would mean returning to her. Which meant that, if he brought Tater Blossom, they would meet. If there was a pony that could actually help young Miss Blossom, it would be Black Maple. She was more than an innkeeper; perhaps it was cliché, but she truly had a way with ponies.

She had a way with him. Nopony was more infuriating. There was nothing in all of existence that could push his buttons in the manner that she did. She made him feel things, unwanted things. When she got into one of her moods—and she was always in one of her moods—she found ways to make him react. He loathed her explosive provocations—but also treasured them. Because of her, he discovered he was passionate about things, that he had strong opinions. She brought out the very best and the very worst in him…

And perhaps, if he was lucky, she might do the same for Potato Blossom.

But that would mean taking her back to Vanhoover.

He watched her as she ate and something about her enthusiasm left him hopeful. She’d been beaten, but not broken. Even after all of the awful things that had happened, she seemed focused upon the dirty business of living. After all that had transpired, she still dared to hope, to dream, to have wants and desires.

“What does it say about me that I feel that everything that just happened was mostly fair?”

Dragged from his thoughts, Nut found that he did not agree. Nothing about this felt fair at all. Had things been fair, none of this would have happened in the first place. But the world was what it was. It baffled him that Tater Blossom thought this was somehow fair. She was shunned, her parents were shamed, and the fragile bonds of the community had been sorely tested.

Things had not held together so well.

“Or maybe it wasn’t fair. I don’t know. Think I’ll go back and forth on it. So, Nut… what do I do? Where do I go? How do I leave this place? What’ll I do with myself now? I was never prepared to leave this place. I wasn’t taught about the outside world, ‘cept that it was bad. Leavin’ scares me.”

“You won’t be alone,” he said, having made his decision at last.

A long, slow, shuddering exhale could be heard, and then, “Thank you, Nut.”

So, that was it then. He had paired her survival with his own, come what may. The prospect terrified him. What if he was a bad teacher? What if he was already a bad teacher, and the lessons taught had caused this? Self-doubt hung over him like a shroud, and he found his vision obscured. The way forward did not seem so clear now. Failure had a terrible cost now, a cost that went beyond his own life. Blundering meant that his companion would suffer.

“There are conditions,” he said, his demeanour transitioning into something a bit more stern. “Rules. You will need to obey them. First and foremost, you must do as I say. There will be times when I am attempting to look after your better interests. Do not thwart my efforts. You will be going to school. That is a requirement. Getting you into school might be a headache, but it will be done. And you will apply yourself, young lady. There will be no excuses made. I am aware of your potential, and if I think that you are selling yourself short, there will be a conversation about it, I assure you. You may come to find that I am not as good natured and mild-mannered as I might first appear.”

“That’s fair,” she replied.

“I am relieved to hear that you feel that way, though I do wonder if your sentiment will change with time.”

“After the rainboom, Pinkie Pie left home to find her place in the world,” Tater Blossom said. “She had to rely upon the kindness of strangers, and that… well that… I want to believe that is true, but everything I’ve been told about strangers is bad. That book”—she pointed to said book on Nut’s suitcase desk—“went against everything I was told. I wanted to believe it, but I was scared. From the time I was tiny I was told that only we have virtue, and only if we cling to the Way. But now… now… now I see that every rotten thing I was told about the wicked ways of the outside world… it’s us. Everything I was told to fear, it’s us. Everything I was taught was wrong, it’s all the stuff we’re guilty of doing. Don’t judge others, that’s Almighty Celestia’s job… except we judge outsiders. Us and them. And now, I’m them. I stopped being us. That book, and you, that’s all I have now. Please, Nut, don’t lead me astray. I want to believe in the kindness of others, just like Pinkie Pie.”

What could be said at a moment like this?

Tater Blossom transformed herself into something resembling a battered, bruised, rather busted up squirrel when she crammed a whole biscuit into her mouth. Unable to respond, Nut pulled out his pocketwatch, flicked it open, and had himself a look at his parents. What might they say right now? His father would recommend caution, there would be wise words aplenty. As for his mother, he suspected that his mother would have little to say to him, but rather, she would have much to say to Tater Blossom.

Such as not cramming whole biscuits into one’s mouth when eating.

His mother was full of helpful life advice such as that.

“None of the Elements of Harmony came from this place,” she said after swallowing some—though not all—of her biscuit.

“The application of critical reason and logic is dangerous for the cause of zealotry.”

“I don’t know what you just said.”

He closed his pocketwatch, spent a moment enjoying the satisfying metallic click, and slipped it back into his pocket. “You are starting to open your eyes, Miss Blossom. You begin to see self-evident truths. Your statement is self-supporting and self-reinforcing. If this place was the only place to find virtue, to find goodness, then the Elements of Harmony would have, indeed, originated from this location. But they did not. Destiny found what it needed elsewhere. There is your proof of good ponies to be found, away from this wretched place.”

“Still a lotta big words, but I think I get it.”

“Beware of those who claim to hold a monopoly on virtue. Or anything else for that matter.” When an owl hooted, he took a moment to listen, and thought to himself, who indeed. “The city is full of these sorts. And by city, I mean Vanhoover. You will hear all manner of proclamations and statements. You will be subjected to advertisements that will prey upon your insecurities and your need to do good, to be good. Lest you become a victim to all this social predation, you shall have to learn how to filter it all out, and this means sharpening your mind. Critical reasoning and logic will save you. Think of critical reasoning as a microscope and logic as a scalpel. One will allow you to examine and inspect, the other will cut things apart so that you might get to the heart of the matter.”

“Big words. Can you give an example… without the big words?”

Sighing, he summoned his patience. She would learn… in time. For now, he would humour her. “All over Vanhoover you will find signs. Billboards, we call them. They are omnipresent. Such signs adorn every conceivable surface, such as buildings, rooftops, any available open space, et cetera and so on. Quite a popular one bears the message, ‘Happy ponies drink Lady Lumberjack’s Birch Beer.’ This assertion is plagued by all manner of problems.”

“This is my life now, ain’t it?”

Caught off guard, he gave Miss Blossom a wry smile.

“First off, exclusionary language.” He held up his hoof and his smile flipped frownward. “Vanhoover is a diverse city. There are griffons there, a great many griffons, and Vanhoover is practically their home away from home. It is as much their city is it is ours. The sign only mentions ponies, and the happiness of ponies. What of griffons? Do they not deserve happiness? Can only ponies be made happy with lady Lumberjack’s Birch Beer? Then there is the troubling implication of happiness. You can be quite happy without birch beer, but the signs suggest that birch beer is somehow necessary. Other signs promise beauty if you use a product. These advertisements use conditional obligation to worm their way into your mind and prey upon your insecurity. X is necessary for Y to happen.”

Tater Blossom carefully wiped her mouth with her foreleg.

“Everything I’ve said applies to this place as well. It is another X leads to Y formula. To be virtuous, to be good, you must be from here. This place. The Widowwood. But you’ve discovered that this isn’t true.”

“No.” She seemed sad when she said this. “And thanks.”

“For what?” he asked.

“For this. For what yer doin’ right now. Takin’ my mind off my troubles. I might be cryin’ otherwise. All this hurts. It hurts so much. But it’s nice to be made to think of other things.”

He swallowed. It hurt. When he swallowed again, the lump lodged in his throat seemed to grow even larger. When he spoke, his words were strained. “You’re very welcome, Miss Blossom.”

“That’s not even my name anymore.”

“It is if you want it to be. They can’t actually take that away from you. Their judgment will only have as much bearing upon you as you allow.” He felt the muscles in his back stiffen, his neck filled with tension, and his ears rose at sharp angles. Was this statement true? It was too late to retract it. These words could not be unspoken. He suspected that their judgment would harm Miss Blossom in ways he could not conceive.

“I’m sleepy.”

“Get some sleep. Save some food for the trip home. We’ll need it. Would you feel safe and secure atop the water tower?”

He expected sarcasm, even hoped for it, but when she tilted her head to look up that way, he came to the realisation that she was considering it. She looked up, then back at him. Then, upwards once more, perhaps pondering, and then she was peering at him once again. Back and forth she went, until at last she seemed to reach a decision.

“I’ll sleep in the wellhouse. You’ll keep me safe.”

“Indeed, I will. Get some rest, Miss Blossom. I am going to pack everything up. Tomorrow will be a long day. A trying day, no doubt.”

“Will you pack up my book, so it’ll be safe?”

“Of course I will.”

“Thank you for making it new again. That was mighty kind of ya.”

“It was nothing.”

“It was something.” Then, after a prolonged pause, “Good night, Mister Nut.”

“Just Nut.” To which he added, “Good night, Miss Blossom.”

Author's Note

Just one more chapter.

Your thoughts? I'd love to hear them. And why you think them.

Chapter 8

“What is Vanhoover like? I can’t even imagine it. You said there is griffons. What’re they like? I’m gonna keep an open mind when I meet ‘em, I promise. Just you wait and see.”

The morning, though still early, was quite warm. Exceptionally warm. This was the warmest morning so far, and the day promised to be a potential scorcher. Tater Blossom had awoken quite early, it was amazing that she slept at all, and in the warm light of dawn, he treated some of her wounds that hadn’t fully closed throughout the night.

“The griffons of Vanhoover are quite different, Miss Blossom. With different conventions and customs. They strive to be Equestrians, with Equestrian ideals. Griffons from Griffonstone have names such as Greta, and Garbo, and Gwen. Equestrian griffons from Vanhoover have different names, to show their solidarity with Equestria. They have names such as Eugene, Eleanor, Elizabeak, and Emmet. Strange names, to be sure, but who am I to judge?”

“Those are strange names,” Tater Blossom agreed with a slow, somewhat stiff nod.

“And unique to Vanhoover. I’m not sure how it caught on. Other griffons in Equestria do not follow this practice, like the griffons of Canterlot. But the griffons of Vanhoover really are quite special. Sadly, they are not well-liked by their own kind, and there is a great deal of cultural friction. They wish to embrace a new way, and their fellows wish to cling to the old way.”

“I understand that… I really, really do.”

“Why yes, I suppose that you might, Miss Blossom.”

His eyes fell to his suitcase, which was packed. Everything fit back in, but the addition of the book made things a tighter fit than expected. For a moment, he paused to think about what he was doing, but then pushed these thoughts from his mind. It was better if he didn’t think about it, for in doing so, he would most certainly paralyse himself. What he was doing was crazy. He was broke.

As he strove to push the unwanted thoughts from his mind, one somehow slipped in. Just one. It occurred to him that he might have to ask his parents for help. For some reason, this felt like the unwanted sting of failure, and he was entirely unprepared to deal with it. He’d made himself responsible for another life, so his failure meant her failure, and that left him uncomfortable, to say the very least.

“So, somepony went against their family to try a new way.”

Squinting through his monocle, he studied his companion, and tried to read what she might be feeling. “That might very well be the case, Miss Blossom.”

“Do you think they was shunned?”

For some reason, this just made him feel tired. Weary. Worn down. How did he answer this? “Griffons have different conventions than we do, Miss Blossom. While I am positive this caused some contention, I am unsure of the outcome or what it might’ve been called. Also, might I remind you that griffons aren’t ponies. Say ‘somebirdy’ instead. It will ensure you are well-liked.”

“Somebirdy. Right. I can do that. If I can remember.”

He sighed, while wondering what, exactly, was he getting himself into?

“Wait”—she held up a hoof—“ain’t griffons part cat, too? Why don’t we say somekitty?”

“If we said that, we’d be referring to the Abyssinians, from Abyssinia. You’ll find them in Vanhoover as well. The griffons share the bounty of the sea with them.” Distracted by thoughts of home, he added, “I can’t wait for a steaming cup of clam chowder.”

“Uh, what?”

“Comfort in a bowl,” he explained, without actually explaining.

“Right. I s’pose I’ll find out.”

“A new world awaits, Miss Blossom. Be excited. But not irrationally exuberant. We can’t have that. You might run amok in a library and earn a new name.” When she did not smile, Nut felt his spirits sag just a little more. “You will get to see the ocean, Miss Blossom.”

“The ocean…”

“It is large. Quite immense, really. It is as beautiful as it is dangerous. I spend a lot of time on the water due to school.” The idea of being on a ship right now appealed to him. It would gently rock from side to side, and that would be quite soothing. He found it difficult to remain awake in such situations. The smell of salt and the peculiar aromas of the ocean were missed.

“How much stuff can one city have?” Tater Blossom asked. “Griffons, and an ocean, and… and… and stuff I can’t even imagine. How does a city have all these things? Where does it all go? Where are the farms? Where does food come from? I can’t… I can’t even get a picture in my head as to what all this might look like.”

While her spirits seemed lifted, he confronted her with what awaited.

“Miss Blossom, we must walk through the heart of town to reach the train platform.” He drew a deep breath. “Are you prepared?”

“No.” Her response was squeaky and made her sound half her age.

He waited.

“I thought I was good to go. But I don’t get to say goodbye. A part of me don’t wanna leave, but I can’t stay. This is the only home I’ve ever known, and I’m leavin’ with a stranger. But he’s a real nice stranger, and I ain’t afeared of him none. If I have to leave with a stranger, I’d rather hope it was him. You, I mean. I don’t know what I was tryin’ to do just now, but I wanted to sound smart.”

Still, he waited.

“If somepony comes to send me away, what will you do?”

“Discourage them.” His response was deadpan, cold, and devoid of emotion.

“I don’t want no one hurt. Well, maybe a part of me does, but she and I aren’t on speakin’ terms. I done reckon I should shun her, and be done with it.” When she drew a deep breath, she shuddered, and her tail flicked against her hind legs hard enough to make her wince.

“There’s a gun in the suitcase—”

“That’s a flare gun,” he said before she could finish.

“Oh. I ain’t never actually seen one before. I guessed what it was.”

“I want you to remain close to me,” he said in a flat, steady monotone. “No matter what happens, you stay close. This goes for when we reach the city, too. No going off to have a better look at something. You remain close, and you do as I say.”

“Yeah, alright. I can do that.”

“No matter what happens, you must stay close. I cannot defend you if we become separated. There is no telling what might happen. Things might get tense. If you become afraid, you must deal with it. I cannot have you getting spooked.”

“I got it, I do. I’m already spooked. Pretty sure if I heard a twig snap right now, I’d bolt.”

This worried him, but his deadpan expression remained steadfast, unwavering.

“You will keep your head held high, and your eyes forward at all times. Do your best to pretend that no one is there. You will walk with dignity and restraint. If I am to be your teacher, and you are to be my pupil, these are my demands. For now. There will be more later.”

“Gotcha.”

“We’ll be working on that later, when we’re safe. Now, deep breath. Head high.”

She did as she was told. Her head could be held a little higher, but he was reasonably satisfied. His pupil, as he had just called her, was injured and in no small amount of pain, so concessions had to be made. What was important was that she could follow instructions. He wanted the town to remember her leaving with her head high for his own reasons, and he did not want to give them the satisfaction of her departing with her head down, with her tail tucked between her legs.

This would not do.

“Repeat after me—”

“Repeat after me.”

Nut felt his left eyebrow muscles forcibly contracting, and his stern expression was in real danger of a smile ruining everything. He wasn’t upset at all, not in the slightest, but she didn’t need to know that. Her spirit in the face of adversity was admirable. Humorous, even. But for now, there was a task to do, and frivolity would have to come later. Preferably with a cup of clam chowder on the table and a pint.

“We are dignified ponies…”

“We are dignified ponies.”

“Fear does not become us…”

“Fear does not become us.”

“Being dignified ponies…”

“Bein’ dignified ponies.”

“We shall face danger with our wits and courage.”

“We shall face danger with our wits and courage.”

For the first time, he allowed just a smidgen of smile to show. “Very good, Miss Blossom. I think we’re good to go.”

“Very good, Miss Blossom, I think we’re good to go.” She hiccupped, perhaps from fear, and with a turn of her head, she asked of him, “May I get a drink of water?”

“Of course,” he replied, “you have but to ask.”

“Do tell, Miss Blossom, why is this place called Widowwood?”

So far, his distraction seemed to be working. His pupil—yes, he rather liked the sound of that—was in high spirits, or seemed to be. No doubt, she had to be in quite some pain, and he had to trot at half his usual pace for her to keep up, but that was fine. What was important was that she kept her head held high, and she remained quite close.

“A great many years ago,” she began, “Almighty Celestia came to this here wood… well, it was a wood way back when… but anyhow, she came here and did battle with the Widow Queen. I’m told there’s been many Widow Queens, but the one who lived here, she done befouled the land with necromancy and bad magic. But Almighty Celestia smote her, ‘cause a smitin’ was necessary. Afterwards, when the Widow Queen was dead, and her armies were defeated, we earth ponies were given the sacred duty to clean up this land and make it so life could live here again. It was a dead land, made evil and impure by the Widow Queen.”

“Fascinating.”

“You say that a lot, Nut.”

“I find many things fascinating.”

“Fair ‘nuff.”

They were on the outskirts of the town proper now. Everything was laid out in circles, with the roads and lanes going out from the center. It was very much like a wagon wheel—or a sun symbol. In the center circle of town were all the large, important buildings, and going right through the middle of everything were the train tracks—with the train platform in the town’s center. The tracks were just spokes, really, running from east to west. Or perhaps west to east.

“I feel eyes—”

“Pay them no attention,” he said. “Focus on me, and me only.”

The westward train—their train—ran early. Eastbound, the train he’d arrived on, ran later in the day. They were in no danger of missing the train, though he felt the need to hurry. Logically, he wasn’t sure what hurrying might accomplish. Once at the train platform, they would have to wait. In the center of town. Surrounded. On all sides. By earth ponies who could hurl rocks with the force of cannonballs.

Surely, it wouldn’t come to that.

As he came out from behind the row of tall corn, he saw a pony. They were quite some distance away, and he dismissed them as a threat. Gripping Susan a little more tightly, he continued forward, for what choice did he have? A pegasus pony flew overhead, dipped low, and vanished behind a tall, bright-red barn.

Why were barns painted such a vivid shade of red?

More ponies could be seen now. Of course they could. They lived here. Some went indoors, while others, others gathered, and then watched. That was fine. They could rubberneck all day for all he cared. But the moment they moved against him—action would be taken. Action that he did not want to take. Hurting them would accomplish nothing and quite enough tragedy had already befell the town. All this shaming and shunning.

Prince Gosling had been shamed or shunned; which one Nut could not recall.

Being an outcast has served the prince rather well, from what little Nut knew of him. Now, he was the Reformer. Not only was the government in a state of transition, pulling itself out of the mire, little by little, but the First Tribes endured metamorphosis as well. However, Nut knew next to nothing about them, only that they had worshiped Celestia first, before the new tribes came to Equestria.

Perhaps his pupil might also be a reformer; Nut rather liked the sound of that.

This might very well be a beginning, he reasoned. She may need to leave home so that she could be properly educated and prepared—so that she might return home some day and enact some meaningful change so this place might prosper. Was this optimism? It flew in the face of rationality to think this, yet here he was, hopeful that his pupil—yes, this was growing on him—would have a bright, successful future.

But first, the train platform.

There were ponies in the way. Quite a large group of them. Would they forsake reason? For now, there was distance, considerable distance, but the mob stood between him and the train platform. Tater Blossom was whimpering, but she kept her head held high, and he was immensely proud of her for doing so.

Off to Nut’s left, somepony approached. Quite unexpectedly, it was Hickory. The stallion, now a grieving father, had red, bloodshot eyes, and it was obvious that he’d been weeping. Nut was fine with Hickory approaching, but he wasn’t sure how the townsponies might react. Would these ponies die for their foolish faith? They might… they just might.

Another pony moved, clearly to intercept Hickory. A speedy fellow of hulking build. Fearing for Hickory’s safety, Nut knew that action might have to be taken, but he didn’t want to start a fight, not if he could avoid it. But these ponies were making it difficult to avoid. What was he to do? The train platform seemed far away now, an impossible, impassible distance.

Cutting his way through a mob to reach it proved to be an unpleasant prospect.

“If any harm comes to this pony, a price will be paid in heads.” Nut’s voice carried for considerable distance, and his farsightedness allowed him to see a great many pricked ears.

“You’re not armed,” somepony shouted from a fair distance away.

With a keen sense of regret, Nut loosened Susan’s blade, which emerged with smooth mechanical perfection. A metre long, gleaming, with edges honed far beyond razor sharpness. Oh yes, this got their attention. This was a language they understood. Fear. Brute force. Intimidation. ‘Twas no wonder these poor ponies had become the enemies of reason. He gave Susan a little wave, and her blade did a marvellous job of glinting in the sunlight.

“You won’t do it!”

“Try me,” he replied, his voice calm, but also loud. “I am a noble”—the word almost caught in his throat, and he loathed himself for saying it—“and as such it is my sworn duty to defend the defenseless. I was so charged to do so by Princess Celestia herself on the day of my cute-ceañera. Do not hold me to my oath. What are your lives worth? Will you carelessly throw them away?”

“Pa!”

For a moment, Nut feared that his pupil might bolt, but she didn’t. No, she remained at his side, and he was proud of her. Hickory, safe for the moment, hurried, and the pony that moved to intercept had gone still. Grim, tight-lipped, Nut retracted Susan’s blade, and lowered his umbrella. So far, for now, the peace held, though he knew that things could change in an eyeblink.

He spotted Blaue.

Her head was bandaged, and he recalled that she had lost an ear. Then he noticed her eyes. Such hatred. Terrible, formidable, awful, reckless hatred. Try as he might, he could not recall seeing such hatred in the eyes of his fellow equines, and having caught sight of it unnerved him. It shook him, and disturbed his faith in the world, which wasn’t terribly solid to begin with.

Such hate… how might it infect ponies?

“Pa, what are you doin’? Yer already shamed… you’ll end up shunned. Cast out.”

“I don’t care, Spudlet.”

“Pa, don’t say that. Please. Go on. Do right. To touch me is to drink poison. You heard what was said.”

“Then the elders are poisoned,” he replied, “you were touched when they drug you outta town. I’m powerful sorry, Spudlet.”

“Mister Wainwright.” Nut offered up a respectful nod and raised Susan in salute. “Pleasant day. Terrible circumstances. Have your goodbyes, good sir, and be not troubled. Heads will roll. Take all the time you need, but do keep in mind we must catch a train.”

Something that was almost like confidence could now be seen in Hickory.

“I wronged you, Spudlet. I wronged myself. I… wish I would’ve done something sooner. So strange. I feel free now. Is this what you feel?”

Tater Blossom nodded.

“I don’t care what anypony says. Yer still my daughter. That can’t be taken away from me. Potato Blossom. I will always remember your name. You keep it… at least I hope you will. Go out into the world and grow. Blossom. Live up to your name. Go and find fertile soil, girl. The ground here has gone rotten.”

“Come with us, Pa.”

“I can’t.”

“Well, why not?” she demanded.

“Long ago, we swore an oath to clean up this place. We were bound to the land. We gave our word. Words is powerful things, Spudlet. Nut here knows this, better than most I reckon. This ground is polluted, and I gotta stay here to clean up the mess I helped make. I might be shamed, but I can still serve as a warnin’, ‘til breath leaves my body.”

“Pa…” Whatever else Tater Blossom might have said was cut off by a choked sob.

Nut watched as a mare approached. She had her ears pinned back, her head low, and he determined that she was not a threat. Hickory and Tater Blossom both watched her, and though he was quite sad, Hickory did gesture for the mare to come closer. Stepping back from the trio, Nut kept an eye on the crowd, fearing thrown stones.

“Aunt Beech, you saved me. Thank you. I’m sorry you got shamed.”

“You were always my brother’s favourite,” the mare whispered back. “Yer very dear to him, Tater. I don’t got no regrets. My husband says I did right, and my heart says I did right, and I’m pretty sure that Almighty Celestia would say I did right. ‘Course, that might be the problem. I’m thinkin’ that all of us seem to think that Almighty Celestia would say we did right… and none of us can agree what right is right now.”

“I love ya both,” Tater Blossom said to her father and aunt.

“And we love you. We’ll always love you.” Beech lifted her head a bit, her ears rose, and after she sidled closer to her brother, she found a little confidence. “Blaue is furious and says all this is a travesty. She’s threatenin’ to write letters and get her good name restored. She’s told us all that she’s gonna call down the wrath of Almighty Celestia.”

“That’s funny,” said Nut in a loud, clarion voice that carried across the distances. “I am the wrath of Almighty Celestia, as per my oath. Does this mean that I am to make a return to this place to sort everything out? You would call for the help of outsiders, after condemning them in such a vulgar fashion? What freshly dropped steaming pile of hypocrisy is this?”

He raised Susan for all to see. “Know this. These two are under my protection. If any harm comes to them, and I find out about it, and trust me, I will find out about it, I will return to this place, and those responsible will be made to answer. When I return to Canterlot, which will be soon, Princess Celestia will be told in detail about this place, and what has gone on here. If you have prayers, pray that she does not come here, as I will be with her, and I will obey her every command, as I am obligated by my oath.”

Blaue departed; perhaps she had business elsewhere.

Nut did not relax his guard as others in the crowd left in haste to look after their errands.

“Lord Nut—”

“Please, just Nut.” He turned to face Hickory.

“Well, you just acted like a lord, yer Lordship.”

“So I did, and I don’t particularly feel bad about it. How peculiar. I’ve always found it distasteful to lord over others. This felt right and necessary. Otherwise, I don’t think I would behave in such a way.”

“I have something I must ask of you,” Hickory said in a voice that cracked with every other spoken word.

“Go on,” Nut replied. “Ask. Without hesitation. If it is in my power, I shall oblige you.”

“Look after my daughter. Give me yer word as a noble. Please… it’s all I have left to believe in.”

Heart sinking, Nut wasn’t sure what to say. He studied Hickory, watched as the tears fell, and did not look away, no matter how awkward it felt to witness the proud stallion's distress. Lowering Susan, Nut tilted his head off to one side, and peered at Hickory through his monocle.

“Why put your faith in such things? Most of the nobles aren’t worthy of such devotion.”

“You are,” Hickory retorted.

“You barely know me.”

“I saw yer drawin’s.” Hickory drew himself up to his full height. “You draw like I make wagon wheels and wagons. Perfect lines, perfect curves, and attention to every little detail that matters. And that’s not even yer mark, yer Lordship. You care. You care. Every line matters. Your commitment to detail. Every detail. That’s character. So please, promise me. Give me yer word as a noble. I trust in you to do right. I saw the proof of your character in your drawin’s. In yer art. My Spudlet has a lot of details.”

Nut stood there, blinking, not understanding how his art could matter so much.

“Promise me that you won’t ditch her the first chance you get, or use her for unwholesome acts, or that she won’t be sold to make coin. Promise me that she’ll be kept safe ‘neath yer watchful eye. Promise me that she’ll get the schoolin’ she deserves.” Hickory swallowed, a painful, terrible sound. “In return, I promise you that I’ll try to do right here. I’ll try to make this place better. Maybe my voice won’t amount to much, but I’m done bein’ quiet. I plan to speak out. Bein’ silent has cost me everything… everything. I don’t even have Blaue no more. I tossed her out last night after we had a row ‘bout what took place.”

“I’ll promise too,” Beech offered as she pressed against her brother.

Unsure of what to say, Nut turned his attention upon Tater Blossom, and this was almost his undoing. Her pained face was almost more than he could bear. The shiny skin of her blackened eye twitched, her nostrils quivered, and her face shuddered in such a way that he feared that she might open some of her wounds.

This was a matter of faith, he realised, and as such, it made him supremely uncomfortable. He found himself in quite a mess, and he was without counsel. This was supposed to be about studying trolls, but life it seemed, had other plans, and right now, at this very moment, Nut resented life for pressing a matter of faith upon him. A stern word needed to be had with life, a good talking to, or perhaps a bit of what for. Just what, exactly, was he committing himself to?

His art, it seemed, was good enough to condemn him.

He heard a shriek and every hair along his spine stood up, even the ones beneath his tweed waistcoat. Colette was running and somehow evading a mare in hot pursuit. Perhaps a sister, or an aunt. The little filly was bawling her eyes out, and Nut felt his heart attempting to leap out of his throat.

“Leave her be!” he barked.

The mare stopped quite suddenly, skidding even, but Colette didn’t stop at all. She ran beneath her father, her aunt, and then crashed into Tater Blossom, who cried out in pain. Colette clung to her big sister’s leg, and wrapped all four of her short, stubby legs around Tater Blossom’s right front leg.

“Don’t go!”

“I gotta!”

“No, you ain’t gotta!”

“Yeah, I gotta!”

“No!” Colette shook her head. “Yer more my mama than Mama is! You raised me! You raised me! You can’t go! You can’t!”

“Colette, I’m powerful sorry, but I’m not allowed to stay. And even if I was… I wouldn’t.”

“NO!”

Nut wondered what a heart tearing itself in twain might feel like, and worried that he was about to experience such a phenomenon. It would be dreadful, and he braced himself. Pints were quite a ways away, though he doubted there were enough pints in the world to dull the pain of such a wound. Mindful of the crowd, he kept watch, while also reminding himself of the coming train.

“No…” Squeezing her eyes shut, Colette clung to her sister’s leg.

“I raised you wrong,” Tater Blossom said to her sister. “I wronged you, Colette. Tellin’ you to put faith in something that I had doubts about. I told you to be right, and honest, and true, and I was lyin’ through my teeth when I told you that. At least, it feels like I lied now. I told you to follow the way when I didn’t know my own way.”

“I don’t care ‘bout none of that! Don’t go!”

“Consarnit, Colette… you don’t even know what you’ve done, but done went and made yer life hard. Why’d you have to go and do that when I ain’t gonna be here to protect you? Tarnation, buggery, and vice!”

Then, cringing, she asked her father, “Pa, am I in trouble for sayin’ that?”

“Naw, yer in no worse trouble, Spudlet. Sometimes, the right words ain’t good ones.”

“You get that from us,” Beech said. “Why, yer great gramama could light a fire with her maledictions.”

“You have my word as a noble,” Nut said as he began to worry about time. “It’s only fair after I mentioned my oath previously. So, you may have my oath as well. I will keep young Miss Potato Blossom in my care, and she will remain in my care until such a time that she is refined and becomes a proper lady. She will suffer no untoward actions, or unseemly propositions in exchange for my care. Her safety and well-being shall be placed ahead of my own. I give you my word.”

A shuddering sigh could be heard from Hickory, who then turned to his daughter and said to her, “Do right by the gentlepony, Tater, and he’ll do right by you. Be a lady. That’s what I want for you. Blossom into something greater.”

Colette wept.

“Beech, we have a job ahead of us. A hard one. Lord Nut here is gonna do right by my little Spudlet, so we have to do right by him. Are ye with me? Can I count on you?”

“Of course, Hickory. You raised me. Just like Tater raised Colette.” Beech stepped closer to Tater Blossom, and said to the sobbing filly, “Come away, sweetie. Come away. You can come and stay with me, just like yer Pa. Yer sister has to go and be a lady.”

“No!” Colette clung on even tighter.

“This… this is when it all changes, ain’t it?” asked Tater Blossom of her family. “I leave and go away. And you two… you three… yer stuck trying to clean this mess up. With everypony against you. All these hard feelings and sore hearts.” She began to sniffle, and her tears fell in a steady stream.

“It’s not hopeless, Spudlet.” Hickory moved closer to his daughters, and stood nose to nose with Tater Blossom, his Spudlet. “It felt hopeless before, which is why I went silent. I just didn’t see the point in kickin’ up dust. I spent my whole life just acceptin’ whatever happened and bein’ quiet ‘bout it, ‘cause I didn’t think things could be changed. Things is what they is. I don’t believe that no more. Things was the way they was ‘cause I didn’t do nuttin’ to change how they was. And it cost me. It cost me.”

Way off in the distance, a train whistle blew.

“I wish I had more time,” said Hickory while his ears pricked at the sound of the whistle. “I finally got my head straight, and there’s no time left. Potato Blossom, you do as I say. Do right by the gentlepony, Potato Blossom, and he’ll do right by you. You spare him your sass. I love you. I wish I had more time.”

“I’ll look after Colette,” Beech said to Potato Blossom. “Blaue won’t touch her if I have anything to do with it. I’ll take off that other ear of hers. She don’t use ‘em no how. I love you, Tater. You take care of yerself, and you go and be a lady.”

“I love you both.” Then, she looked down at her little sister. “Colette, I love you to pieces. You remember this day, Colette. This is the day when we confessed our sins and admitted to one another that we did wrong. This day matters. Never forget this day.” Lifting her head, she said to her father, “Pull her off, Pa. I can hear the train a-huffin’. Time to go.”

Hickory, no doubt knowing that time was short, kissed his daughter goodbye. A second later, Beech also offered up a parting peck, but this turned into something else, a lingering touch—a long farewell that could not last. Hickory began to pry Colette off, and the filly howled in protest. Nut too, could hear the train coming now.

They had to reach the platform. The crowd was gone, mostly, and there was nothing in their way now. There would be no resistance. He hoped that love would hold sway here, for that was truly Celestia’s way, but hope was foolish optimism. His skepticism told him that if change did come to this place, it would be as glacial as it was painful. Did he believe that earth ponies were stubborn creatures?

Perhaps.

Colette was now the source of substantial proof of this, as she would not let go.

But let go she did, and then she clung to her father’s leg, bawling. These were ponies that loved one another. Sure, mistakes had been made. Yes, the family had fractured. But what was left, what he saw right now before him, he recognised them as family, and not so different from his own. There was a lot of love here, and as Tater Blossom kissed her father, her aunt, and her little sister goodbye, he lifted up his suitcase, which was one book heavier.

He was leaving one life heavier.

Perhaps teacher and pupil was a sort of familial arrangement of a type, or could be with the right teacher and pupil. He thought of his teachers, of Luna in particular, and could not help but wonder what they might think of all this. Luna had lifted him up at the most vulnerable, most confused point of his life. She had taught him to love himself, to be himself, and not be ashamed of who and what he was.

Luna had taught him how to live, and he had no way to repay her for her generous gift. But he could pay it forward. That he could do. Potato Blossom, now in his care, would need to learn many things—living with herself after all of this would be difficult, but not impossible. He would find a way to see her through. He owed Luna that much. Goodness rendered for goodness given.

“I say, the train is getting close. We must be going, my pupil.”

“I gotta go,” Tater Blossom said to her family. “My teacher is calling me away. Remember me.”

“We’ll always remember you,” Hickory replied.

“Colette, you mind Beech. She’s yer ma and yer aunt.”

In response, the stricken filly howled.

School was in session, and it was time to go.

Author's Note

And so it ends. As I have stated, the original story was to be a fair bit longer, but this feels like a good stopping point.

I am not sure enough people are interested to make it worth the effort to keep going.

There are other stories to work on, to finish. But, this has done great things for my creative batteries. So this wasn't a waste of time.

Have thoughts? I'd love to hear them.

Thank you for sticking with me during my flight of fancy. :heart: