The Sisters and Their Bridge
Long ago, all the waters were new and the sun did as it pleased, and so did my sister and I. We wandered the world, shouted at waterfalls, poked things with sticks. We fought and learned new languages and discovered which plants a pony shouldn't eat. There are folktales about us now, some of them almost true. Here is one the goats tell, which I have amended slightly to preserve the little truths.
Celestia, somewhat shorter in this time than she would someday be, set the last of four branches across the stream with an air of concentration. She wanted it to be perfect. First impressions would be key.
She surveyed her work and nodded to herself. "The plan, Sister, is underway. Thou seest that this brook is impassible; its rapids cannot be o'erpassed without wings or fins or undignified wetness."
"Ich see et," I sighed, because I knew where this was going and there was no point in arguing.
"Travelers, the wanderers and such folk shall find themselves stopped by the stream, and follow it to search for a stone upon which to jump, until they reach my bridge. They shall be most impressed at the sight, shall they not? It is a most excellent bridge."
"A heahtreowe bricg," I agreed. Yes, that is how I spoke at the time. You understand Old Ponish, don't you? Of course you do.
"Then they shall see me," said Celestia with inexplicable confidence, "at the peak of the bridge, tall and beautiful and so very open to exchange! And I shall say to them, 'What ho, wanderer. Thou art welcome to use this bridge—if thou payest the toll.'"
"And hwat beon se feon?" I asked, though I knew the answer.
"Their hoof in marriage!" shouted Celestia joyously.
I turned away under the pretense of scratching an itch on my neck, and rolled my eyes. I loved my sister and always shall, but she was clearly going through some kind of phase.
Reason hadn't worked all the other times. Maybe this time. "Hwaet afaran? Se holt be idel."
The trees shook.
Celestia grinned. "Wrong! Here cometh one right now."
Sun's blood, I thought to myself, she was actually going to get a chance to try it. This was the problem with Celestia, or 'twas my opinion at the time. If she'd had a few minutes to get bored, that would have been the end of it and we could have left to do something else. But in those days I believe Celestia made up for in courage what she lacked in patience, and waiting twenty minutes was far harder for her than instigating social fiascos.
Alas. "Laet getten thes ofer with," I muttered. I stepped back and let Celestia take center stage.
We saw his trellis of innumerable horns first, tall enough to prick bright holes in the black sky, up above the clouds on the other side of the mountain. Then we smelled the reek of his breath. He stepped between the peaks, ponderously and without hurry, and every step of his hooves cracked bedrock.
Celestia watched on her little bridge with one hoof lifted like a hound. Her tail was wagging. Yes, it was.
These were the early days of the world, and before there were goats, there was Goat. He fathered his kind, and the eldest members of the clan will sometimes tell their kids stories of Father Goat. His blood was gravel. If you flew into the shag of his fur you would discover that it was as deep as a gorge. He kept one eye on death, and the other on the sea. Some say that, on the day of his birth, he'd spat his heart into his mouth and chewed it like cud, and so could no longer feel pain.
I watched Celestia's face with some interest. I'd never seen love at first sight before.
Celestia flew up to Goat's eye level, saw that she hadn't reached his height yet, then flew further. I discarded my misgivings and followed her, because I would rather have made a fool of myself alongside my sister than watch my sister make a fool of herself. It is possible that in that moment I invented the concept of the "wingmare."
Just before Goat had gotten close enough that the thunder of his approach could threaten to drown out her voice, Celestia took her deepest breath and shouted, "What ho, traveler!"
Goat didn't stop or even look at us.
"I SAID, WHAT HO, TRAVELER!" Celestia zipped in a figure eight pattern and waved her forelegs frantically in front of his vast, slotted eye.
It took him time to stop, and some effort to see us. It's difficult to focus on a mote of dust, you see, even when it whispers to you.
Celestia cupped her hooves around her mouth. "Fair traveler! Thou standest before a stream! It be wet and cold, and it wendeth from one horizon to the other! It would take thee, er, several minutes to find its end, or else thou must walk over it and risk wetted hooves!"
Slowly, Goat cocked his head. It took him several minutes. Celestia waited for him to finish, and when he did, she continued. "But I have built a means to cross—a most sturdy bridge of branches! But it is a toll bridge, and if thou wishest to cross, I shall have my toll."
Goat waited.
"Thy hoof in marriage!"
Goat waited for this to make sense.
"I am Celestia, daughter of the sky that stretcheth o'er us all!" I flew just beneath Celestia and threw my hooves open in what I hoped was a grand pose to present my sister's majesty.
Goat didn't move. His vast head was still cocked.
Against all reason, his lack of response appeared to surprise Celestia. She changed tactics. "The stream is surpassing deep, traveler! Balkest thou at my price? I offer the use of a most convenient bridge, and I would make an enchanting bride! Consider also the merits of a tiny wife! I can describe things thou perceivest not, such as dragonflies, for example, or the texture of treebark, or myself!"
"And thu art driftinge cyme," I suggested.
"And I am very beautiful!" Celestia shouted.
His head moved. At first I thought he hadn't heard, and was simply shifting in place as he waited for the situation to resolve itself, as goats do. Then the gesture continued and I realized he was shaking his colossal head.
Celestia's posture wilted a bit. At the time, for her sake, I wished he hadn't responded at all. I wanted him to let her imagine he hadn't understood, and continue on his way.
Then my sister straightened. "Then let us negotiate! Thou mayest use my bridge—for a kiss."
His head tilted again. I realized what he was doing and fled. Celestia flew down to his mouth, and though I was long gone by the time she reached him, I can imagine the microscopic peck she left somewhere on the great plain of his upper lip.
And Goat walked on. His hoofprints were craters in the forest. He continued on between the mountains on his way to the sea.
"Well," said Celestia, breathless, now flying next to me. "Well."
This is what Goat did then. He walked an hour, and then another, and eventually made his way to the coast. His eyes remained fixed on death and the sea, and now they were both directed forward as he waded in. He walked out into the water, walked until even Goat's legs couldn't reach the sand beneath and he had to swim. And he swam. You know him as the island of Goatia, which is the homeland of Goat's children.
One more thing. On the slope of a great rocky promontory, at the edge of the island, there is a small patch of pale opal in the shape of a kiss. The goats leave it alone, because that's where it belongs.
***
In the west garden of Canterlot Castle over a coffee and a plate of cookies, Twilight and Celestia applauded. Then Twilight looked at Celestia and said slyly, "Let me guess. You remember it differently."
Celestia grinned. "That's exactly what happened and I regret nothing." She poured herself another cup. "Twilight's turn, then Luna. Tell us about your first kiss, Your Highness."
