Some ponies simply can’t be in one place for too long without going a little mad.
It is a pony such as this that we find in the gentle wilderness of the far east, in the lands of the deer, of the endless forests with twisting ravines and raging waterfalls. This lone earth pony is one of those with the itch, the wanderlust, the call of the horizon.
He takes what he imagines is an easy path through the trees. He is in no apparent hurry.
It has been said that the Unicorn Tribe once roamed these lands, once built their towers of stone among the trees and rivers. It has been said that the nomadic deer tribes clashed with the unicorns, used their own magic to cast strange and powerful spells on the arrogant ponyfolk. It is said that these spells may linger.
It is said that these forests are enchanted.
Our earth pony has no fear of the forest, enchantments notwithstanding. He has travelled wide, seen much. Look and you will see his saddlebags bulging with harvested food, his pack heavy with useful equipment. He can cook, he can whittle tools, he has rope, he has a large and sturdy tent. Presently he pauses to consult a compass.
The wind passes over the canopy with a placid, muted roar. Here among the cliffs the forest is dark, the sun difficult to spot. It is a maze of waterfalls and boulders. One might wonder how a pony could expect to navigate such a place at all. But the little chestnut wanderer, apparently satisfied with his heading, carries on with purpose. His blood-red mane catches what little sunlight filters through the leaves above.
Ahead of him, the walls of rock loom tall. There is a way to navigate between them, if a creature is clever and observant. One would hope that our little pony is both.
Not only because of the cliffs.
There in the forest the earth pony pauses. His ears swivel. Head cocked slightly, he walks more slowly in the direction of the nearest cliff face. There is something different about the forest, here. Something… quiet. Quiet in the way that makes you pay attention. The way that suggests the world has stopped breathing, somehow.
We see the wanderer emerge into a little clearing, here against the cliff face. It’s cool here, and utterly still. And yet, it seems he can hear something, something coming from a crack in the wall.
No, crack isn’t the right word. It’s a crevice, a huge split in the rock, a dark rift with that special hollow feeling that seems to suck at you, drawing you forth into the caverns within.
The pony stops, there in the clearing. Seems to think for a moment. Takes off his larger pack, sets it down, consults his compass once again, and takes a map from his saddlebags with his teeth. This, too, he consults at some length. He glances along the rock face at the point where two cliff edges seem to meet, or almost meet. Then he looks up at the sky, squinting into the sun which is soon to dip below the plateau before him. It’s past noon.
He seems to come to a decision.
We watch as he puts away the map, the compass. Cocking his head, again, he starts toward the crevice. You can hear it, now. There is a hollow hum coming from somewhere within the darkness. No— a note. A slow, ponderous melody.
Somewhere there in the black of the caverns is an unknown source of what could almost be music.
It is said that these forests are enchanted.
Nevertheless, the wanderer wanders inside.
For a while we cannot see. We can only hear. The pony seems to be following an internal guide, an inscrutable sixth sense. We hear him pause every now and then, take a new direction, or huff as he carefully hops down what can only be small ledges there in the blackness.
This goes on for some time.
The music—for it is now unmistakably music—is growing louder now. It is a melancholy sound. The flute? Perhaps. Slowly the notes cascade over each other, drawing us forward, guiding the little pony onward.
There is light, now.
The chestnut pony with the red mane finds himself descending what can now be seen as a stairway. Gentle, flickering torchlight guides his hooves from below. He sees a doorway.
He knows there is no danger, no immediate danger, leastways. His wanderlust would not guide him to this place were it otherwise. He crosses the threshold.
The chestnut stallion finds himself in a little library.
In the middle of the library is a table, and on the table is a gently glowing white crystal. The music is coming from the crystal. As the music slowly comes to a stop, the glow does as well.
It is at this point that we, and the little pony, notice another pony in the room.
A unicorn.
His mane is white, his coat is grey. His eyes are red. They sparkle at the sight of the newcomer. He lowers the flute from his lips with his red-tinged magic.
“Greetings, wanderer,” he says.
The crystal glows when he speaks. The voice comes from the crystal, not the pony.
The unicorn smiles. The wanderer gives a small smile in return. For a moment they say nothing more. Then the earth pony looks around. The walls are stone, as befits a cave, but the shelves are wood; they look as if they were persuaded to grow right into the rock. It is, somehow, rather cozy. There are comfortable-looking chairs. A modest rug. A hammock can be seen deeper into the little cavern. There are magical torches encased within glass.
“What is this place?”
The unicorn does not answer immediately. First he carefully sets aside the flute, and steps up to the middle of the room, beside the table, to regard his visitor more fully. “Before that, friend, pray allow me to introduce myself. My name is Spellweaver. How might I address you?”
“I call myself Pathfinder,” the earth pony says in return.
This earns a raised eyebrow. “You ‘call yourself’? What do other ponies call you? What, pray tell, did your parents call you?”
“That’s not important.” Pathfinder shakes his head. “They— I chose my own name. Pathfinder is who I am.” He looks more sharply at his host. “Who are you?”
For the briefest of moments, a dark look passes across the grey unicorn’s face. Before it can be noticed, he smiles again and bows. “I am a humble spellcaster in the court of Princess Jade. Or… I was. It has been, I think, a very long time since then.” He gestures at the library about him. “This has been my home for… what might be millenia.”
If this is shocking to Pathfinder, he does not show it. “How did this come to be? What is the nature of this place? Why are you here?”
“I am here to tend my library,” Spellweaver says simply. “I have been… enchanted. Cursed. I never hunger, I never sleep, I have all the time in the world to study magic or read the novels in my collection.” He pauses sadly. “The deerfolk saw an opportunity to give me an… ironic fate. Their spellcraft is strange. I fear I am here forever. Even Princess Luna could not deliver me from this place.”
Pathfinder glances at the crystal. “Why have I never heard of you? It seems that, if you cannot leave, the princesses would find a way to help in other ways. Send you company. There are many like me, out in the world, exploring. They would come.”
“Ah, a clever pony. Yes, ‘twould be a blessing. But nopony can leave here with knowledge of my plight. When you leave this place all memory of it will depart.”
“Hm.” Again, the revelation does not seem to shake the adventurer. He looks around again. “You have many books, but I imagine you tire of them by now.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t say that,” the unicorn says, nodding toward a large shelf that almost reaches the roof of the cave. “I have a special bookshelf over here. Tales of adventures far and wide. I never tire of these. I even come by new ones, now and then.”
“I grew up in a library,” Pathfinder supplies. “I always did like the adventure epics, myself.”
“Oh?” Spellweaver says. “What is your name, wanderer? Your true name?”
Suddenly the earth pony is backing away. “I… I’m leaving.” He turns, walks to the door, pauses to look back. “I’m sorry.”
***
The chestnut stallion picks up his gear. Why did he set it down? Merely to stretch and eat a little? Yes— he must have done. The sun is beginning to dip below the top of the plateau; it’s coming on to late afternoon. He has an odd feeling this isn’t right, but shrugs it off.
The earth pony feels a strong desire to get away from the strange crevice in the cliff. Something about it makes him nervous. There must be an underground river causing strange echoes within the cavern. It’s funny— it almost sounds like music.
For some reason, as he sets off, munching an apple, Pathfinder finds himself thinking on his father’s library back home. He wonders what his life might have been like had his parents had the power to keep him there, like they wanted, reading about grand adventures rather than going in search of them himself.
He shivers. What an awful life that might have been.
Some ponies simply can’t be in one place for too long without going a little mad.
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Author's Note
For those who are a little lost: if the wanderer had told the unicorn his real name, he would be trapped there as a book forever like the other adventurers who entered the cave.
I seriously recommend reading the other entries in this particular contest; they were all excellent.
