J.M.J.
1
The soft, lush grass where I sat offered little comfort to my outdoor cenacle. The countless branches provided meager shade from the glaring afternoon sun. It seemed to stay in one place for extended periods, before shifting thirty degrees to display passage of time.
Despite my awareness of the planet’s rotation well maintained by a tall pony princess, I found myself less enthused that such a feat was accomplished. I wonder what sort of catastrophe had to occur to rely so greatly on one to keep gravity from collapsing.
I'm told this had been done over a millennium now, maybe two. A sister has to steer the moon’s revolution also. And the less spoken about the weather and seasons, the better.
I sat beneath the broad limbs of the most unusual fruit trees, as I spent many afternoons writing letters. For the past month, my instincts, and a white canine spirit, brought me to the furthest corner of the orchard in this small cottage town and strange world.
I've grown used to the bizarre, yet adorable populace, as I did the arbor terrace of supernatural defiance standing before me. Ironically, or thankfully, it's my unsettling gift that has kept me grounded.
It was nothing like I've ever seen. That became a catch phrase of mine in this unusual, fantastic place.
The trees were taller than anything else rooted in this vast orchard. One of them grew apples, while the other had pears. They were found so far on the outskirts of town and property, a select few would know where to find them.
But it wasn't their height or girth that bewildered me. Nor was it their placement beyond notice if their existence were unknown, which was mostly the case. No, it wasn't even the fruit that grew from them, which seemed to stay ripe without falling or showing signs of rot.
It was how they grew.
Somehow, by divine dexterity, their stems managed to twist around each other like strands of rope. Winding upward as if they were one and the same trunk. Had they not grown two distinct fruits, I would've been none the wiser.
I imagined Stormy close by, laughing at my face when I first saw it.
Bronwell Llewellyn was my fiancée, who died from bullet wounds in a mass shooting at the mall of Pico Mundo. She always liked to be called Stormy, and I like it too. She was protecting children at the ice cream parlor where she worked, when machine guns erupted in the Mojave shopping center by satanic zealots.
She is my soul mate, and my destiny.
At the wooden base a couple stood close by, one on each side of its trunk. They were not extremely young, no fresh gleam of delight in their glances. Nor were they long past their prime, it seemed.
Still full of life and rigor, as if they still had decades ahead of them. But I learned that no age is exempt from what happens on this side of eternity. Regardless of a whimsical world filled with technicolored ponies, and mythical creatures that could talk.
I am twenty-one now, but I am much older than when I was twenty. I was also made aware that the two colorful ponies before me lived a life with their own heartbreaks, trauma and challenges, before their untimely death.
Much like my Stormy.
The stallion was brawny, with solid muscle beneath his bright yellow coat, and green eyes under a mane of solid red. His head was up to my torso when I stand up. Somehow, he wore a Stetson on his horse head.
The mare was exceptionally built herself, though shorter and slimmer, having also been raised in a homestead promoting arduous labor. The orange, long curls of her mane and tale accentuated her bright peach fur. In addition to her blue-green eyes matching the hairbands she wore.
The most peculiar feature that stood out from their species was the artful emblems on their flanks, where there'd be a brand of some kind. They were part of the fur and skin to which they belonged.
So far, in the short time I spent in this small town, no two ponies’ signets are identical.
The mare bore the image of what looked like a glass jar with something buttery inside. I'm not sure how else to describe it. The stallion’s looked like a half-sliced green apple with its inside facing out, and a bright yellow star at its core.
When I saw them as they were the moment they died, their emblems were beyond recognition.
There was no way to identify them, nor were they ever found. It was consoling to know that they at least had each other. Not all couples are blessed with such a mercy.
Why would such a thing happen in the first place? Even with my secret, I can never answer that. Nor after the many times I asked the One who sent me this gift. Or curse, however you look at it.
I was writing and transcribing the muted hoof taps the pair were making against the double-laced trees. Something that they've been doing since I first saw them.
Despite the dead being unable to talk, they always find ways to communicate with me, whether by silent gestures, emotions, facial expressions, or in this case, coded messages.
Many departed souls cannot move on from this world. Some of them are drawn towards me seeking justice, comfort, companionship, or some other motive. And when a spirit gets very mad, it would turn poltergeist and send objects dangerously across the room.
Occasionally I would see a newly departed soul storm through a place, enraged and embittered, then vanish like smoke. Like someone from the Mafia or KGB took them away. Made them disappear.
We each have our own difficulties, complications and problems in daily life. Communing with the dead, when others are unaware or doubtful, happens to be mine.
Having checked out a book on “Horse Code” from the town library, I came to learn more about this couple’s history. Their names are Pear Butter and Bright Macintosh. They communicated with each other secretly like this, even when around their feuding parents.
They hoped their love for each other could help break the bitter rivalry between the neighboring families. They have been holding onto that hope, even after death.
Her own family moved away and abandoned her the night of the wedding. Where the family properties met and the double trees were planted. But Pear insisted on forgiving them and her stubborn father.
Bright wanted his equally stubborn and resenting mother to be forgiving also.
Their two eldest children were afraid to let grandmother see or smell anything pear related, and too scared to ask why. Even though Pear and her mother-in-law got along, she went by her nickname to help with other relatives.
Her three children only knew her as Buttercup.
She and Bright Mac died before they could give an explanation. And Bright's well-meaning mother, raising the foals for them, grew senile when came time to offer one. The youngest was still oblivious to that pain.
I hear barking from behind, as I finished the last sentence. Recognizing the sound of Boo beckoning me back, I folded the final pages I was working on before sliding them into envelopes for their intended readers.
Boo is a white shepherd mix, and maybe part Labrador retriever. He moves gracefully like the fog and can easily hide in a blizzard. He has been traveling with me since St. Bartholomew’s Abbey, where I stayed as a guest for seven months.
I found out that he could see the dead also, finally realizing Boo was an actual spirit after leaving St. Bart’s. Had I known the full nature of Boo’s presence, I probably would've given him a better name.
It must have been providential, because he seemed to like it. He is the only ghost animal I met who stays among the living. And he was probably at the Abbey waiting for me.
"Alright, you two," I said, "Looks like we're calling it a day."
I got back onto my feet, stretched my arms, shoulders, and neck, before turning back towards the Apple Family residents. With Bright and Pear walking beside me, I strolled through the lush fruit trees and soft grass at a leisure pace.
My name is Odd Thomas. My dysfunctional and unstable parents never fixed the mistake they claimed was made on my birth certificate. Nor did they call me Todd, as was their verbal intent. Considering how my life's been dealt, I find it suits me well. I never changed it after I turned eighteen.
The whole of my family history can be found in a separate volume, so I will not bother you with further reiteration.
As to how I got here, that's something I can't rightly explain.
The memory of what happened two months ago is clouded. Even if I can remember exactly, I doubt I can do it justice. Like Alice Through the Looking Glass, you can't understand it, nor explain how to step through a solid surface like the resurrected Savior.
But suspension of disbelief is enough to allow it. Miracles, by definition, entail wonder and suspension.
Either you imagine the mirror becoming a horizontal pool, stepping forward makes you fade like mist, or becoming one with the scorched sand. The refracted light projects a flat image of the area, and somehow you become part of that flat, backward projection, without needing your original spot to exist.
The first thing I rightly recall was waking up in what appeared to be a hospital, run by talking, colorful, miniature horses. Some of them had wings, others had horns, and some without either. Many of them wondered where I came from, or what I was. Some were scared or anxious, others curious and enthused, while others still were accusing me of being a changeling spy.
I wondered if a changeling, whatever that is, actually resembled a human.
I'm not sure how things could've improved without the sudden intervention of what I first thought was an angel. Thankfully, everyone else could see the tall figure of vibrant fur and feathers. Something I was both glad of and disturbed by.
With eyes bright as orchids, the walking tower of ivory had a mane and tale that was not just a blend of blue, purple, green and pink, but a flowing borealis. The emblem on the flanks was an orange and yellow sun with rays waving around it.
With both wings and horn, the mare stood three or four times taller than the rest of her kind.
Definitely female by her voice, demeanor, and physique. She seemed to acknowledge Boo's presence with a smile, following my glance at his leaning posture against her legs. No one else saw him, as he panted gleefully at me and my present situation.
Needless to say, I received the benevolent trust of this land’s immortal ruler, who also knew my secret without a word ever spoken. She radiated physical prowess and maternal, divine wisdom that put my supernatural sense on high alert.
As if to say the greatest creature I physically met so far was looking and talking directly at me.
"Greetings, stranger," she said calmly, firmly, and warmly. "My name is Celestia, Princess of Equestria, Mover of the Sun. Would you tell us your name please, and where you come from?"
If you are asking how I responded, I fainted. Passed out on sensory-spiritual overload, with an exhale for my answer. Sorry to disappoint.
With that, though, I guess it was enough to break the ice and for everyone else to welcome me. I've never been so warmly received by an entire community outside of St. Bart’s. Once again, with all these things and more happening to me, it was my secret that became my tether.
Despite how much brighter, more pleasant, cheerful, and even virtuous ordinary life can be here, there's always a darkness to reality that can't be ignored.
I still see the dead walking around, holding tightly to all things dear without much help moving on. Most of them came from terrible accidents, natural disasters, disease, and feral attacks. But one or two fell victim to a violent crime.
I'm told this settlement was established only a century ago. And the castle ruins in the neighboring woods have their own proverbial, and actual skeletons. And all it that implies.
Long story short I received food, shelter, and even some part-time work in this small, quiet hamlet called Ponyville. During that time, I grew more acquainted and mingled with the pony locals. Living and dead.
I would sleep in the Apple Family barn rafters, more out of practical preference, serve my famous pancakes at Sugar-Cube Corner as a fry cook, labor outdoors in the orchard, and help with odds and ends at Golden Oak’s Library. I've also written what needed to be said by Pear Butter and Bright Macintosh along the way.
In the span of two months, I grew quite familiar with this village and their way of life. And I learned more about my host's family history than they do, themselves.
I also kept a small journal, chalk-full of reflections and anecdotes concerning my gift. For reasons yet unknown to me, I had done this by trusting my acutely reliable instinct. Perhaps, though unlikely, someone here might put it to good use.
I made a point to write on the first page: “To whomever's drawn to this, beware. Not for the faint of heart. Odd Thomas.”
I passed row after row of apple trees, with the deceased pony couple offering a brush of fur against the outside of my legs. As they were sharing their history and sorrow, Bright and Pear received some of my own in the process. Seeing as how they were sharing, their adorable nature ebbed off on me to reciprocate.
Also, for some reason, their spirits are able to have some sort of tangible effect on me that I can feel physical contact. Despite these souls no longer having their bodies, the link between the two must be strong still. Otherwise, I might've been gladly out of work long ago.
I was reaching the final line of trees before entering the farm’s open pasture, when the silhouetted figure of a man stood in front of the pre-dusk sunlight. His shape and posture were a dead giveaway, insofar that Frank Sinatra never needed an introduction.
“Hi, Frank,” I greeted. “Hope the sun wasn’t beating down on you too hard today.”
He simply shrugged nonchalant, eyes darting to and fro as if humming and searching for a tune to fit the occasion.
When I got closer, I recognized the color of his suit and hat he wore in High Society, starring alongside Grace Kelly, Bing Crosby and Louis Armstrong. It was a remake of The Philadelphia Story, which had James Stewart, Cary Grant, and Katherine Hepburn in her first big hit. Strangely enough, Grace, Jimmy and Cary would also collaborate with Hitchcock.
As for Old Blue Eyes, he leaned against that same tree where I saw him before heading to the orchard’s edge. He has yet to tell me why he's accompanying me, nor did he show any urgency for my help to cross over.
Since I encountered him outside the Abbey, after saying goodbye to Elvis, Frank's been leisurely walking beside me as though we were lifelong pals.
But his presence with me did show his need for help, the way Elvis did, and for reasons I'm discerning still. His passing may have been sudden due to a heart attack, but it was also after a full life and admitting the verge of defeat.
He really did it his way.
On first encountering this world, Sinatra was disturbed by the stark contrast to what he and I knew. Take The Manchurian Candidate, for instance. With Angela Lansbury's chilling performance.
With this world's talking ponies, cheerfulness and enchantment, he might've had a harder time with it than me. And when they suddenly jump into a synchronized, improv musical number, he would cringe at how sappy it looked and sounded.
But with each gradual song, I would notice his foot tapping. Then his fingers would start to snap. I thought I saw him mouth the words, "When in Rome." Then he started adding his own baritone to the mix, despite none of us hearing him.
He's made himself more comfortable in the area, and now trying to find the right tune that might warrant another musical sequence.
"I guess you're truly young at heart."
My words were rewarded with the Italian version of the bird, with Bright and Pear looking on with bemusement.
"I got to admit," I told him, "never thought I'd see this side of you."
While I encountered places where the dead have gathered in a single spot, they would never mingle or interact. They see and acknowledge one another but can never breach the unseeable barrier of their own purgative state. They are aware of each other's emotions, but unable to provide direct support or admonishment.
The same is applied to the deceased pony couple, as they have stood on opposites sides of me throughout my stay. Their closeness is from sharing the same moment of death, but they can only engage in what personal struggles they have to face. Apart from what they shared, anyway.
I turned back to face the Apple homestead, where the elderly mare of the house stood on the porch. She was chomping down on the steel wand meant for the triangle overhead.
Her frail limbs and wrinkled snout were covered by bright green fur, the mane and tail white as webs. Eyes held an orange-yellow glow like embers, and her signet was a steaming hot pie. Bright’s mother, who's named Granny Smith, gave the triangle a loud clang.
For a pony her age seeming so frail, Granny still had a strong larynx and full set of lungs.
“Soup’s on, everypony,” she shouted after putting down the steel rod. I suppose such colloquialisms come naturally in this world.
Congregating in front of the porch, the two eldest grandchildren appeared from separate regions of the orchard.
“Coming, Gran,” cried the mare with a brisk trot and sweat. “Land sakes! Princesses, themselves, know I’ve worked a mighty fierce appetite after today’s work.”
“Yup.” Her big brother nodded in kind. His monosyllabic response carried with it an elongated drawl of the “y”.
The first one was Applejack, causing me to wonder if fermenting brews was her specialty. Her fur matched that of her late mother’s orange mane, with the mane and tail equally as long, and gleaming yellow after her father’s own coat. Her flanks’ emblem had the simple trifecta of red apples, with green stems to match her eyes and hairbands. Her father’s Stetson, the only thing found of them, stood proudly on her equine cranium.
The stallion’s name was Big Macintosh, with his coat red as the father’s mane. His own mane and tail were orange to match his mother’s. Eyes equally green as his younger sister’s. Behind the horse collar that he wore, the signet on his flanks was that of a halved green apple, with its core facing outward. But no star inside. His plow horse figure resembled Bright's also.
Applejack looked to me with a warm smile in greeting. “And how are things going for you today, Odd? I reckon Carrot and Cupcake kept you mighty busy this morning.”
I shrugged back with a mild grin, “No more than usual. Soon as the breakfast crowd cleared, things quieted down."
"But not before they went for seconds and thirds of your famous flapjacks, right?"
Tilting my head modestly, I answered with a quiet squint.
“Did Twi and Spike need you for anything afterward,” she enquired. I shook my head in reply, saying how no difficult tasks at Golden Oak’s required my immediate help. And before the young mare could ask further, I said the same applied to the rest of her friends.
As fate would have it, I came to the one place in this strange land where the most pivotal figures in recent history reside. Guess that would explain the fanfare from Princess Celestia, due to my unusual entrance.
From what I gathered, Applejack became one of six ponies in town to bear something called the Elements of Harmony. Strange, magical artifacts with precious stones that glow, and somehow emulate a certain aspect of, or virtue in friendship. Each of the bearers possess benevolent qualities and traits that embody or reflect said emulation.
Her friends’ names are Rainbow Dash, Rarity, Fluttershy, Pinkie Pie, and Twilight Sparkle. Even after two months, I’m still coming to grips with saying those names aloud. No doubt the same can be said about mine here. The closest names resembling my own in town were Gusteau the griffon, Matilda the mule, and a passing minotaur named Iron Will.
Also noteworthy is the addition of Twilight's assistant, and adopted brother of sorts, in a small dragon named Spike.
“Now hold on just an apple-bucking minute,” Smith exclaimed, before anyone else can come closer. “We’re still missing somepony. Any of you three seen where Applebloom run off to?”
I shook my head a second time, as Big Mac gave a bass “Nope.” Frank, Boo and the deceased couple calmly watched this exchange.
“Caught a glimpse of her and her friends at the club house,” said Applejack. “I gave her the heads up that the bell’d be ringing soon, so she shouldn’t be long.”
That sort of trust and peace in this land is a luxury very few can afford. Especially when it comes to the neighboring woods and its castle ruins. But I'm told so long as ponies stayed out of them, they'd usually be safe.
Suddenly, there came a great yell from behind the sibling mare. “I’m coming! I’m coming! I’m here!”
The small filly skidded to a halt with a panting fury, after her scrawny legs carried her across the open field and trees. Applebloom had the coat and mane to match her father, while also wearing a large magenta bow behind her ears. Her eyes matched those of her grandmother’s, gleaming like embers in a warm fireplace. The filly bore no emblem. Due to it not appearing yet, they said.
“Sweetie Belle and Scoots wanted to know when we’ll meet to welcome back Pipsqueak on the train.”
“Shoot,” her big sister remarked, “I plumb forgot that was tomorrow afternoon. I’ve got market duty then and won’t be able to take you to the station. Sorry, sis.”
“But Big Mac can’t do it neither,” said the filly. “He’s got that doctor’s appointment then also!”
“Just a quick check-up on his throat, Bloom,” said Applejack, “That won’t hurt you with time none.”
“But I promised Pipsqueak that we’ll be there to say hi when his family gets back. If we show up late, he’ll be leaving the station before we can see him before school.”
“We’ll work this out after supper,” announced the elder matron. “Right now, food’s getting cold.”
With that, we all made our way up the porch steps. Due to my size, I had to lower my head and shoulders before entry when I came last. Boo followed after me, whilst Frank stayed outside to enjoy the porch scenery.
Applebloom rushed up to me with pleading, glittering irises to go with a pursed lip. “Odd, you think you could walk with me and my friends to the train tomorrow?”
Before I could say anything, Big Mac stated, "Do as Granny says, Bloom. We'll talk about it after eating."
I gave her a smile for comfort, as she trotted onward. After washing our respective ligaments, we headed toward the family table. It was interesting to see how the youngest was trusted with those her age to venture into the orchard out of anyone's vantage point, yet also needing an escort outside property lines.
From what I heard, it wasn't because of the danger in meeting strangers, since everyone in town knows each other. And the foreboding woods on the other side of town would deter them from wandering into it by themselves, after a previous incident. Rather, it's because Applebloom and her friends evoked more mayhem in their wake when without supervision.
But even then, they would be difficult to handle at times.
The doctors from Ponyville's hospital could tell that I was omnivorous, so my hosts made an effort to accommodate my nourishment. Putting down an order to the sole griffon denizen, Granny Smith went out of her way to find the oldest, largest pig in their pen for Gusteau to carve and prepare also.
Insisting that it was no bother, they said it was good to have company. And earning my keep as I did these past two months was more than sufficient to them.
Silently sitting at opposite ends of the table, Pear and Bright would relish listening to their children.
While discussing amongst themselves how their day went, it came to Applebloom's turn to share her friends' latest attempts of gaining their signets together. I grew accustomed to hearing a variety of outlandish, ludicrous schemes that exceeded this fantastic world's standards. So much so, I would nod and offer a few words to answer questions that stem from the ponies' curiosity of what my world's like.
The ponies kept referring to their flank emblems as Cutie Marks, which struck me as a less than apt nomen. Based on what they told me, this icon was meant to signify a natural talent. One that reflects the individual's personal taste, passions, basic calling and purpose in life. How a pony contributes to society, culture, family and community.
Cutie Mark was never something I would have guessed, even among these adorable creatures. But that would showcase my lack of imagination, I suppose.
The meal was finished and ready for cleaning when the youngest Apple spoke up again, "You think maybe Odd can take me, Scootaloo and Sweetie Belle to the station tomorrow?"
"That depends, sugar-cube," Applejack answered. "Sure, we won't be able to do much on the farm in the afternoon. But that don't automatically mean Odd'll be available. Besides, we still need to hear his say in all this. What'd you think, partner?"
Boo laid down under the table, during and after supper. I saw him nodding off to a kind of ghostly slumber while the Apple parents stayed at the table with him. As for me, I was kneeling beside Granny Smith to help wash the dishes and cutlery, while Jack and Bloom dried them, and Mac put them away.
Looking back at their elder daughter, I told her, "As always, I'm just playing it by ear. If nothing serious comes up, I think I can manage."
I instantly regretted my poor phrasing to tempt fate. I sensed it the moment I finished talking. These ponies have gotten me more relaxed, less vigilant than I normally should. Now I wonder if that would come at a price.
"So," Applebloom wondered, "that means you can come with us, right?"
Taking my time to formulate an answer, I kept my eyes down from staring at what I knew loomed overhead. After two months of living here, danger was now lurking around the corner.
"Well, by what time you plan to be there?"
"Well," she pondered, "the Friendship Express arrives at the station around 2:30. Timely Porter and Steamer are the conductor and engineer, so those two like to make sure things run smoothly and on time. It takes more than half an hour to walk. So, that means we're gonna have to meet my friends before and head there before two o'clock."
"What about Rainbow Dash," I asked her. "Doesn't Scootaloo like having her around?"
"Oh, yeah! All the time. But she's not gonna be around tomorrow because of a weather patrol meeting with the other Pegasi. She's either gonna nap while going to that meeting, or avoid it by flying someplace else to take a nap."
"Yep," nodded her sister, "that sure does sound like our Rainbow."
"And what time's Mac's appointment again," I enquired, hoping for an opening.
"1:40," said his youngest sister, "But that's on the far side of town from the station. Even farther from us here."
"Yup," Big Mac confirmed.
"Something the matter, Odd," asked Applejack. "You look a bit tense all the sudden."
She seemed to have a keen awareness towards another person's body language.
I turned my torso to quasi-face the orange mare, making it easier for me not to look above her. Sometimes, I would see these shadowy creatures that so few can. Normally before a terrible disaster. They never seemed to know I see them, but I always made an effort to play it safe and minimize direct, visual contact.
I remember one summer in Pico Mundo, when a boy visiting from out of town saw the same creatures as me. He said how he called them bodachs. That same day, he was pinned to a brick wall by a wild semi that lost its brakes. He was killed on impact.
There were two bodachs stalking Applejack. Shadowy, skeletal figures with feline movements, leering towards her as though to sniff her.
I relaxed my clamped lips for a steady exhale, before telling Applejack. "Just feeling stiff right now. Must've exerted more energy today than I thought."
After staring at me with beady eyes, the orange mare accepted my answer at face value. For now, anyway.
"What about Pipsqueak's home," I said to her little sister. "You know where that is?"
"Uh-huh," Bloom nodded. "It's actually right next door to Sugar-Cube Corner!"
"Well," I started talking while considering my options. "How about this? If I don't have something to do in the afternoon, I can definitely take you three to the station. But if something comes up, I'll let you know at lunchtime. That way, after your brother's appointment, he can take you straight to Sugar-Cube Corner and either wait for Pipsqueak's family, or knock on their door."
Before getting a reaction from Bloom, Jack offered her own feedback.
"Why, I reckon that's as good a compromise as any. Pinkie Pie'll definitely keep an eye out for them coming back tomorrow. So, she can also let you young'uns know if she's seen 'em or not. Plus, she might have something special for their homecoming also that you three can join in."
"It's not perfect," I added, seeing her downcast look. "And I know you three really wanted to keep your promise to your friend. But that's the best way you can keep it. Maybe not at the station, but definitely before going back to school."
"Alright," Bloom agreed. "And it might also turn out to be bigger and even better for it! We made a few gifts for Pipsqueak, so then having Pinkie throw a party too would also be great. It'll be like a surprise!"
"Big Mac," his sister asked, "that sound good to you, don't it?"
"Yup."
"Then it's settled," Granny declared, handing me the final dish to rinse. "We'll find out by lunchtime if Mr. Odd can take Applebloom and company to the station. And if not, Big Mac with take them to see Pinkie after his appointment."
Bright Mac and Pear Butter looked at us with warmth and endearment. I was just glad to keep my focus and theirs off the bodachs hovering over their older daughter, however short a while that was. Knowing that they could sense them also.
Applebloom gave the widest grin and brightest eyes I had ever seen. Then she pounced around the dining area out of sheer delight.
"Yay, Odd," she cheered. "I know you won't let us down!"
After handing off the last plate to her big brother to dry, I gave her a smile in return. Saying in earnest how her votive confidence was overwhelming.
A.M.D.G.
J.M.J.
2
After explaining what votive confidence meant, we each went to separate stations suited for washing ourselves more thoroughly after supper. The ponies took turns in their respective areas in the house. Both on the ground and upper floor.
I was graciously provided with a tub and basic cleansing tools behind the barn. I'm told away from prying eyes on hovering clouds. The rest of the evening was spent telling the apple farmers some things about my life at Pico Mundo, as we were drying and resting by the lighted fireplace.
Though bodachs continued to stalk the pony family’s middle child, who happened to wield a crucial, world-saving artifact among six that are co-dependent of each other, the fact that there’s two meant the threat was neither immanent nor immediate.
When a room filled with these dark omens of chaos, death and anguish overflows and gushes out the hinges and keyhole, and time itself gets screwed, that’s when you know something titanic and inevitable is around the corner.
Still, it doesn’t make it easier to watch their snakelike movements around someone I’ve come to know well. So, I opted the floor space away from Applejack’s seat and had them at the edge of my peripheral. I can have perfect tunnel vision whenever there’s need for it.
As before, the deceased parents snuggled on opposite sides of my sitting matter on the wood surface. The mother stayed close to her first daughter, while the father was near his youngest and eldest child.
Boo rested his wintry, phantom head on my lap. Pear brushed her peach hoof against his back, while Bright used his yellow one to scratch the spirit dog’s ear. The complete lack of ability for physical touch was ever ignored by the ghost trio that surrounded me in this equine homestead.
The pony farmers had a living canine of their own. An Australian shepherd, collie mix named Winona. I don’t know this world’s equivalent for her breed. She rested her own head against my lap opposite Boo’s. Winona’s back was against Bright Mac’s barrel.
My first visit to the estate introduced me to this playful, energetic, tongue-flapping creature. Brown and white fur, puffy as a cloud. Yet also lean, swift and agile. Winona was the staple of household dogs that you’d expect from Hollywood.
Applewood, in this case.
Automatically, she took a shine to me. Running laps around me wanting to play fetch. I saw her noting Frank’s presence, then make a jovial move towards Boo. More often than not, whenever the Apple siblings weren’t around, she would gravitate towards Bright Mac and Pear Butter.
Animals often show this keen awareness toward any and all spirits. Especially those that are unfriendly.
Trying not to be reminded of Terrible Chester, I kept my attention towards the yellow filly with a thousand, one questions. Away from the leering smoke phantoms among us. After an anxious groan from Winona, Boo offered her comfort while calming my own nerves also.
Around the warm hearth in the late-summer dusk, we sat to unwind. Despite the heat of the season not yet reduced, prepping the fireplace for a cooler night helped us to dry and relax. The flames emulated Pentecostal solace for sore limbs and aching joints. Its spellbinding, scorching glow of tongues danced with deadly enchantment that no insect could resist.
I gave my hosts a few descriptions about Wyatt Porter, his wife Karla, then Little Ozzie, Father Sean, Terry Stambaugh and Danny Jessup. The family I always needed but got much later in life. Not saying this to evoke pity. That’s the last thing I need.
If ever.
“And did you ever write anything, like Ozzie said you should,” asked Applebloom. Inadvertently she directed more unwanted attention towards myself. Somehow, we moved from my six-fingered friend to Little Ozzie’s encouragement that I should also become an author like himself.
“I put down a couple books since last year,” I nodded plainly. “Started on a third before coming here.”
The aforementioned journal doesn’t count, since that will never be published in my home world. Nor do I want it entering public domain here either.
“Were they bestsellers?” The eager curiosity gleamed most vigorously from her irises thanks to the fire’s blazing lightshow.
“They’re not published yet,” I told her with half the bleak truth. “I told Little Ozzie to wait ‘til I know I’m finished writing.”
“But when’ll that be?”
“Not sure yet,” I shrugged. “Hopefully sooner than later.”
"Do they have brave heroes saving the day and living happily ever after?"
"Not exactly." Never really considered myself one, though I've had heroic figures to help me. Some at great costs.
I made a point never to mention Stormy in our conversations. Something I had done throughout my tenure in Ponyville. One, because I already shared the love of my life with Bright Macintosh and Pear Butter. As well as somebody else.
And two, I had long since made my peace with her tragic passing. With the hope of someday seeing her again. After my need in this mortal, wounded state reaches its much-anticipated finale.
A resolution that’s also recounted in my previous chronicles.
“What’re they about,” Applebloom continued.
I shrugged, with my head down in a meek manner. “Just ramblings mostly. Things I’ve been up to. Things I’ve seen, people I met, places I visited…”
“Ya think you’ll write a book about meeting us and coming here to Equestria?”
“If I do,” I pondered, “I’ll have to ask Ozzie to put it out years later.”
And likely in another penname.
“How come?”
No, it’s not for reasons you might expect. Not because few or nobody would believe me and send me to an asylum or research lab. That ship sailed from the moment I understood the nature of my secret. My reasoning is more interior.
The amount of effort required for me to relate every single event would be astronomical. For those who have read my previous volumes to this point, you may or may not have wondered what sort of things I’d done or encountered since leaving Pico Mundo.
Preferably not.
Before the mall shooting. Or during my stay at the Abbey. Or how I kept my remaining sanity through Stormy, Chief Porter and Company.
Normally, I tell people that those things were irrelevant to the never-ending battle we each face on a regular basis. Whether we admit it, or not.
But the sort of energy and focus for me to reflect on, reminisce and even sort through the things I’ve experienced is far too taxing. Otherwise, I would’ve liked for my obese, classically educated, culinary author with a sixth finger to share my trans-dimensional encounter with musically inclined ponies of different colors.
My little spin on Dorothy and the Land of Oz. Ghost white dog, Tin-man Sinatra, with talking and flying animals to boot.
No. This little adventure will have to be left to the side for now. At best. Most likely it’ll play host to worms and soil inside my Scarecrow skull, six feet under. Not for fear of how others may perceive me. Nor out of shame to those who welcomed me, befriend me and took me in as the best of Samaritans. But because it’s just too much for me to handle.
Alongside everything else that’s happening back home.
Looking at the yellow filly I said, “Because this place is too good for my short vocabulary. Not enough words to do right by it.”
My sincerity must’ve been detected, because Bloom beamed with the brightest glint in her eyes to overshadow the hearth. All other ponies living and deceased nodded with warm appreciation. Even Granny Smith was nodding off with a soft smile.
“I don’t know, Odd,” Jack commented in my periphery. “Looks to me like you’ve got a mighty fine dictionary to match Twilight’s in that there cantaloupe you got on your shoulders.”
Now more able to brace myself, not wanting to give Applejack the impression I was ignoring her, I turned my face directly towards the orange pony. Catching a small glimpse of the bodachs mingling in the shadows behind and over her Stetson.
“Really,” I asked in earnest. “Why’d you think that?”
“Just something I noticed when seeing you writing that journal of yours,” she answered. “How you’re muttering different words to yourself between pauses. Them few I could pick up while passing by were downright sophisticated if I ever heard such. Like one of them Unicorn professors in Canterlot where Twi lived.”
I shrugged with my usual downplaying demeanor. “I just pick up a thesaurus sometimes to make sure I know what I’m saying.”
“Don’t look like no dinothesaurus was sitting next to ya when you write. Nothing to be worried about or ashamed none neither. Big Mac knows a thing or two about learning words to say his piece when he wants to.”
“Yup,” her brother agreed.
“All I’m trying to say,” continued Applejack, “is when it comes to who you are at your core, Odd, I reckon you got what it takes to make a great storyteller for a task like writing a whole other world different than your own.”
She doesn’t know the half of it.
“Maybe,” came my response. “Though personally I prefer the life of a simple fry cook. And I’m guessing your brother shares in that goal. Or at least understands it.”
“Yup,” Mac nodded.
“Which part, Big Mac,” asked Applebloom. “Sharing or understanding?”
“Yup.”
Applejack teased, “Fry cook and all?”
“Yup,” was his playful retort. The Grandfather Clock standing nearby began to chime halfway towards the ninth hour.
“Alright, young’uns,” announced Granny as she stirred from her short nap. “Reckon it’s coming near that time when we start calling it a day and turn in.”
“Aw, Granny,” moaned the small filly next to her unseen father, “it’s still the school break. Can’t we just stay a teensy bit more?”
“No can do,” Smith replied shaking her head firmly. “Big Mac needs to make sure he’s well rested for his check-up tomorrow, and there’s still a bunch of prep work fer us afore Celestia brings out the sun.”
“Granny’s right, sis,” said Jack, rising from her mother's side and proud glance. “Can’t have you all tuckered out when welcoming Pipsqueak home cuz ya didn’t get a good night’s sleep.”
“Oh, alright. Goodnight, Odd.”
Since my human height rendered me unable to join the trusting filly upstairs and wish her goodnight, I received her heartfelt leap and embrace against my lean chest, frame and lap. Boo and Winona got up sensing Applebloom’s intended trajectory.
“Hope you get to come with us tomorrow,” she muttered behind my neck.
“Same here, Applebloom,” I said, giving her a mildly tender squeeze. “But even if I don’t make it, try to have the most fun anyway.”
“I’ll try. But it feels like you really are part of the family, and I don’t want you to miss out on nothing. I’m not sure why.”
The sentiment wasn’t from childish – or foalish – attachments toward anything and anyone pleasant to look at. Nothing naïve or cute in the expression. Just innocent. Pure and simple. And with my own silent guess to why she felt that way, I gave only a small thanks and comforting grin in reply.
“See you in the morning,” I asked.
“You bet!” She moved upstairs beside Macintosh. Smiling with that assurance. Winona had already raced to the top of the steps. As Granny rose from her rocking chair, Applejack stayed behind to spot her grandmother’s ascension. While the shadowy leeches stayed close to her, the count was still two from my marginal viewpoint.
I sat quietly by the glowing embers with my remaining companions. The sunset gleaming dimly through the windows.
Boo returned his head onto my lap, with Pear and Bright petting him once again. One by one, the bedroom doors upstairs made the sounds of closing against their respective thresholds. But before the last door could shut, the rhythm of hooves picked up volume back down to the family room, where I was the sole visible occupant.
Applejack was seen once again by the light of the heated coals. I didn’t need my additional sense to recognize her steady calm with great worry aimed towards me. Not that I was surprised, seeing as how much she valued deep familial bonds.
As her little sister mentioned previously, these ponies were quick to include me as an honorary family member. Quicker to adopt me than Wyatt and Karla Porter becoming my unofficial surrogate parents.
When asked if that was a hasty move, Jack’s friend Miss Sparkle told me how it was normal. Once a warm acquaintance is made with mutual respect and genuine openness, most ponies in the village are quick to befriend and nurture said bond with cheerful endearment.
Apparently what openness I offered was satisfactory, since everything else about me was translucent.
“Hey partner,” the young pony asked evenly as shapes moved around her. “Ya sure you’re doing alright?”
By now, you must be asking why I haven’t entrusted my secret to any of these thoughtful, caring, understanding, neighborly equines on the color wheel. My answer to that question is simple.
I have. Just not with these ponies. And for reasons explained shortly. But with my suspicions confirmed about her astute observations, I figured I should meet Applejack halfway.
“I was,” I said after a deep breath, “But something tells me I need to talk with one of your leaders.”
“You mean Luna?”
I nodded.
Princess Luna is the shorter, darker, and cooler temperament to her sister Celestia. She’s the one who revolves this world’s moon after returning from her millennial banishment inside it. Again, the less said the better.
I first encountered the horned Pegasus also of great prowess when I had my first dream in this whimsical land. While graceful and elegant like her elder sibling of white, her deep blue coat and nebula mane completed her more solemn, stoic outlook with turquoise irises. A black patch like spilled ink carrying a white crescent is her emblem.
“Most blessed salutations to you, o weary traveler,” she spoke. “My name is Luna. Princess of Equestria, Keeper of Dreams, and Guide of the Moon. Fear not, Master Thomas of Peak-oh Moon-doh. You are well met by Celestia, my sister.”
Despite my supernatural sense alerting me to her own insurmountable countenance, I found myself more at ease by this constant star of the sea. Like a guiding light that’s shining blissfully through the darkest, most brutal maelstrom. And beneath the surface was someone who felt awkward and unsure of herself interacting with others, like yours truly.
Since then, my nights were occasionally visited by her presence, where she has offered some things about her past and learned a few things about my own. Something like soporific group therapy.
I wondered if ever Stormy had a sister, that she would resemble Luna in terms of character and disposition. She definitely wouldn't be like my imagined sister. Too much alike.
Applejack and her friends learned about this arrangement after Princess Celestia told of her sister’s initiative. One meant to build rapport with their alien visitor. Not to say they doubted my goodwill to the point of involuntary soul reading. Everything discussed between myself and the dark Princess has been shared freely without any sense of deceit, paranoia or intrigue.
And as a bonus, these pony princesses with wings and horns shared in my sixth sense.
One that only a select few of their subjects ever knew about during their immortal lives. They not only sympathized my hesitance in telling other ponies of my ability. They also offered encouragement. Saying how such a talent known by few was because only those few could rightly fathom all that responsibility entailed.
Though they’ve got centuries of experience over me, I’m not sure I totally agree with them. Chief Porter, Little Ozzie, and even Stormy trusted me despite never fully understanding my secret. Even I don’t comprehend it on a good day.
If there ever was one.
Then again, such knowledge got Wyatt Porter in danger and Stormy killed. And Danny wasn’t immune to oath-breaking, nearly getting ourselves killed. It’s a miracle Danny and I made it back, though I wished I hadn’t.
My best friend apologized plenty, and I forgave him on the spot. The reason I shared my secret in the first place was that he suffered from a condition all could see. Letting Danny in on it was my way of telling him he’s not the only one that others would label abnormal. Wittingly or not.
We all have something that makes us unwholesome. Whether it’s seen, or unseen.
The orange farm pony stared at my still matter for a minute longer, as if to say she’s ready to listen while also respecting my privacy at once. Since she was aware of Luna’s correspondence with me, Applejack said, “Well, whatever it is that’s eating at you I’m sure the Princess is just the pony to help.”
I thanked her for checking on me and wished her good night. Even though it grew darker inside the Apple Family’s homestead, I could still distinguish the odious movements of the things stalking her.
She reciprocated before climbing back up the steps. Then gave the door to her room a faint thud. No doubt the pair of bodach escorts accompanied the young mare inside.
AMDG
