By the Jingle of my Tambourine
The cargo carriage hit a bump in the cobble road, and sent the dozing mare into the side of her cramped accommodation. She awoke with a loud cry of pain, and held her head in her hands. The barrels of wine stacked around her began to tumble over, and she dashed to the other side of the carriage before they could fall on her. The floor she lay upon was fervently jerking up and down in an inconsistent pattern as the wooden wheels of the vehicle rolled across the jagged cobblestone, laid into frame some couple of decades ago. She yawned, stretched her back, and smacked her lips a couple of times before drawing back the fine ornate curtains mounted in the back of her sleeping space. These, of course, were the burlap flaps that separated the inside of the carriage from the exterior conditions. The morning was a rimy one, blanketed with a thick layer of opaque fog. A cold blast of air whooshed into the carriage as soon as she drew back the flaps, and, in her desperation, she fell back onto the floor. The sudden draft and unexpected noise caused the reigns-man to turn around and inspect his wagon of wine barrels. His eye didn't happen to fall upon the poor mare, for she was flat on her back in the bottom of the carriage. His lack of attention to the road in front of him brought him extremely close to hitting another coach-driver, and he pulled forcefully upon the reigns, stopping his vehicle only inches away from collision with the other. The mare could hear the driver become consumed in a verbal barrage with the other driver, and took the opportunity to exit her accommodation.
Her shawl had several tears in it, which did little to shield her from the cold and biting frost that hung in the air. Nevertheless, she began to walk down the road, leaving small hoof prints in the thin layer of snow on the ground. The neighborhood she found herself in was all too familiar: the sagging roofs, the depressed walls, the film of smog in the air. The Stratson District was where all of the impoverished factory workers lived. Most of them were immigrants from other countries, and therefore had some propensity for hatred amongst one another. Pinkie had seen it all, though. She knew most languages from around the nearby countries, and knew how to speak them quite fluently. She had spent a good deal of her time traveling from place to place, leaving the destination up to the general economy of trade and transportation. She was better off this time, though, for this time she came into town bearing more than just a couple farthings. She had an entire shilling from a brief amount of time in a Textile Mill; the work didn't suit her very well. A few days into the job were some of the most tortuous extensions of time she had ever endured, so she uprooted herself from her position and hopped on the next passing wine caravan; not before collecting her wages, mind you. A few blocks into the dilapidated rows of houses, she came upon a small, open-window bakery. She walked up to the window and knocked on the wooden frame and cried out for the baker. After a few sounds of clutter in the back, he emerged from some doorway and walked over to the window.
"What is it you want? I have many customers to attend to.", said he in a thick, deep, foreign accent. The cold mare looked around and saw nopony, but thought better than to irritate him by acknowledging this as an excuse to withhold service.
"I'm actually here to buy half a loaf of pumpernickel bread, if you don't mind", she said in his native language. He simply raised his right eyebrow at her and walked back into the bakery to fetch her order. She waited there for a few minutes, distracting herself by blowing into the air and seeing her breath. The baker came back with her half loaf.
"That will be two farthings, IF you can afford it", he said in a mocking tone. She begrudgingly pulled out her shilling and placed it on the window sill. "I don't take stolen money", he said in the same tone.
"It's not stolen. I earned it by wage, thank you very much", she snapped back.
The baker tossed his head back and laughed. "You are joking, no?! Gypsies don't earn money, they steal it!" He narrowed his eyes and glared at her. He gave another stout laugh and tossed the bread into the snow a few feet from the window. "Here, consider it charity on my part!" He continued to laugh. The disgruntled mare grabbed her shilling, walked over to the loaf, picked it up, and brushed the snow off with her shawl.
"Now go!", the baker shouted. "Having your kind around is bad for business!" He retreated back into his shop. Pinkie walked away, somewhat amused at the fact that the bread had taken no real damage, and she didn't have to pay anything for it. The realization would soon come to him, she thought, and the thought welled up a small giggle from the gypsy. She continued down the road, picking small bits off of the pumpernickel and popping them into her mouth. After about half of the half loaf had been consumed, she stuffed it into a one-sided saddlebag that hung by a strap from her side. There was no way to tell exactly how far the sun had risen, for the sky was overcast so that one could not tell where one cloud ended and another began; it all seemed as one continuous wall of grey, draping the closer atmosphere in the thick fog. As she walked, she made it a habit to exhale and let her breath condense in the air before her eyes. She was on a way to and old friend's place, at least she hoped so. She hadn't been to this particular town in several years, and was hoping that her friend still lived in the same house; the last house on the right as she walked north on Saddle Street. She eventually crossed in front of an old orphanage, an abandoned old place that reeked of wood rot and rat infestation. She couldn't help but feel a sense of fondness for the place, though. She could picture the little foals running around inside, waiting on the Old Mare that ran the place to bring out the crock of lukewarm porridge, even if it had lumps of flour inside. On special occasions, the porridge would be seasoned with just a dash of nutmeg, cinnamon, or some other tasty spice. Images of familiar faces flashed in her mind; the young and dirty faces of fellow orphan foals. At night, they would all gather in one room and sing songs about the wicked Old Mare and how they planned to escape her one day, though adoption, abandonment, or....other less acceptable methods. Still, even as fond as these memories were to Pinkie, she took no time to pause and recollect; she continued down the street to her target destination.
* * *
Her hoof ached as she struck the old wooden door, for it was almost frozen solid from walking in the cold, clammy atmosphere. Again, she found herself waiting at the doorstep of uncertainty. To her surprise, an unfamiliar face came to the door and gazed with a curious look at her. The strange stallion peeked out from behind a small crack allotted between the door frame and the door itself.
"Can I help you?", he asked. His voice had a raspy growl to it. Pinkie sighed and looked at the ground.
"No, I'm afraid not." She began to turn around, but another voice from inside the house called out.
"Gregori, 'o's that at the door? The voice sounds familiar." Pinkie turned back around at the sound of her friend's obviously recognizable voice. A young colt, much younger than she, came over to the door and practically shoved the raspy-voiced stallion aside. He let the door swing wide open. He had a very mouse-like appearance, and his voice seemed to have remained childish in pitch, but had the undertones of a grown set of vocal chords. "Pinkie! Where've you been, you crazy filly?"
Pinkie stepped into the doorway to embrace her tiny friend. "Oh my goodness, Pali! I'd hoped you'd still be here!" Pali returned the embrace and then stepped back. He straightened his navy baker boy cap and adjusted his vest, which was torn in several places at the waist.
"It's Benjamin, now. I've go' a job as a chimney sweep 'round here as of late. The name 'Pali' didn't do to well wit' the customers, so I go by Benjamin." He did a graceful bow, which made Pinkie giggle. "Oh yes, and this 'ere's Gregori", he said, motioning to the older stallion. " 'E's my living mate. Turns out, Chimney sweepin' i'n't as well-payin' as skilled pick-pocket-enizing, so I've 'ad to take in a li'le extra assistance to pay for this 'ere property." He smiled his signature toothy grin which lacked a couple of teeth. He waved a hoof in an inviting motion. "Why don' you come inside, Pink? Get yourself ou' of the cold." Pinkie gladly accepted this invitation and stepped inside the house. Gregori did a slight bow as a greeting gesture and closed the door behind her. Pali (or Benjamin) guided Pinkie over to the coal furnace that glowed with red-orange embers and emitted a welcoming heat. She sat down on a makeshift stool in front of the furnace and rubbed her hooves together near the glow. Gregori sat down next to Pail on a log which rested on the floor next to the stool.
"So, where're you from, Pinkie?", asked the raspy Gregori. He was significantly older than the other two ponies in the room, perhaps even by a couple of decades.
Pinkie let out a bemused laugh at the question. "Where'm I from? I'm not really FROM anywhere. I just go where the carriages take me, and this city happened to be my most recent stop."
Gregori simply nodded at her response, staring off into the embers of the furnace. Pali cleared his throat. "Gregori 'ere's in the telling business. Got stacks 'o coin piled on 'is desk every mornin', and the poor ol' stallion 'as to count it all out by hoof by the end o' the day."
Gregori, somewhat oblivious to his acknowledgement, remained there staring at the coals. "I would like to here a tale or two about your travels, Pinkie. Where all have you been?"
Before Pinkie could answer, Pali let out a shrill laugh. "The better question, Gregori, is where 'asn't she been? Pink's gotten 'round a lot 'o places, i'tn't that right, Pink?"
Pinkie nodded. "Pali and I grew up together, both of us right from the very beginning."
Pali nudged Gregori's shoulder. "This filly and I 'ad a time or two out on the open road. Before I came to set'le in this blunderbuss o' a hole in the wall, Pink and I went jus' about everywhere there is t' go."
Gregori turned his head toward Pali. "Would you shut your trap and let the young girl talk, you biffle-head?" Pali shrugged and looked at Pinkie.
"Well", Pinkie continued, "Like Pali said, I've been pretty much anywhere you could think of. I've been to this town and some other ones several times, but most every other village and city has had its fair share of me." Pinkie resolved to let her stare fix on the embers. "I don't really remember much about the city I was born in, besides the fact that it was completely obliterated by a ravaging Blaze." The glow of the furnace began to mold and shift into the visible spectacle of a city set ablaze by the flaming horse of legend; ponies running, shouting, screaming, scrambling to get away from the searing heat. "My village was Stratfordshire, about a week's travel from this town. Or at least it used to be. The damage done by the Blaze was so extensive that nothing remains of the village today. My father died in the resulting fire, so my mother, left with nothing, sent my brother and I to the orphanage that used to stand just down the street from this house." Pinkie glanced over at Pail. Gregori glanced at Pali as well.
"You two?" He waved his hoof between the two ponies. "You're her brother?", he asked Pali.
"Sure as day, I am. I tol' you we went back." He waved his hoof to Pinkie as an invitation for her to continue.
"Yes, Pali is my brother. 'Pali and Pink' the other orphans used to call us. It was many years ago when we first came to the orphanage, and it wasn't a very ceremonious arrival. However they lived their lives before we came into them, it didn't change much; but I will say that our lives were quite different. Pali and I grew up on a rock farm for the first few years of our lives, and our parents were some of the poorest ponies you'd ever lay eyes upon. Still, like I said, we lived in a small village, where not much was required in terms of coin and finance. After the fire, though, not even the isolation of our community could protect us. So, it was for our own good that we were sent to the orphanage." Pinkie looked down at the ground. "Even after all of my travels, I still have no clue what eventually happened to our mother. I haven't been able to come across her, or anybody who once knew her. Pali and I assume that she's long dead. Anyhow, our lives hadn't really begun until we experienced what that old orphanage had in store for us. The Old Mare who took care of us was a wicked old crone who found pleasure in beating foals for no good cause. Often times, at night, we would gather around inside the upstairs dorm and sing songs to keep ourselves sane; most of them were about escaping the place or getting revenge on the Old Mare." Pinkie glanced at Pali, and Pali gave her a knowing glance back. "That's when some really odd things started to happen. For some reason, the singing would always end up so that all of the other foals would be listening in silence to my own voice. They all told me that it had an alluring pull to it; something about it gave it an irresistible charm that couldn't help but be listened to. I used to think that it just came from vocal talent, but after I grew some years older, I began to understand it more, or perhaps less." She looked up to see Gregori's curious, inquisitive face. She sighed. "You see, it's not altogether a natural thing. Whenever I sing, colts and fillies alike are somehow drawn to my chords, so much so that they'll follow me wherever I go."
Gregori was about to ask something, but Pali interrupted. " 'Ey, sorry Pink, but we've got'ta be 'eadin' off. We've both go' our responsibilities to look after." He and Gregori stood up from the log. "Tell ya what, though Pink", he said with a wipe at his nose, "I'll let ya stay 'ere for as long as you need. Make y'self at home." He began to make for the door, and Gregori stayed behind for just a moment. Pinkie stood up to bid him farewell.
"I would so dearly love to hear more of your story, misses Pinkie. Certainly an enthralling tale", he croaked. "Perhaps tonight over supper, you will continue where you left off?" He looked up at her with almost imploring eyes.
She smiled at the old stallion. "Of course I will, Gregori." He smiled back and walked out the door with Pali. Pinkie stood there, staring at the door for a moment. She eventually sat back down upon the stool and directed her gaze deep into the now vanishing glow of the embers. "Of course I will.", she whispered.
