The Keeper of the Dead

Manea and Keeper entered the living room, and Manea, seeing that we had eaten, let out a delighted squeal. “Oh! You tried the scones! What did you think?”

“They were delicious,” Celestia said. “You’ve really outdone yourself this time, Manea.”

“Oh, please, this was just a flight of fancy. And if you should thank anything, it’s the cookbook. I just followed the instructions.” She then popped one of the scones in her mouth, chewed on it happily, then hummed with approval. “How about a drink? We’ve got some lime juice, freshly squeezed!”

As she prepared this, Keeper sat across from us. She seemed to have aged by half a century in the time I had last seen her, for her movements were stiff and cumbersome, and she let out a few grunts when she lowered herself onto the sofa.

I glanced outside. The fog grouped together into columns resembling talons before dispersing.

“How long have you been Celestia’s student?” Keeper asked, without looking at me.

I looked at Celestia. She nodded, giving me permission. “Um… About a year.”

“How did you become her student?”

I again looked at Celestia, and she smiled encouragingly. Hidden in that curve, however, was a trace of uncertainty—or maybe a shadow of what looked like uncertainty, at any rate.

I began to tell Keeper about the entrance exam, sparing no detail. Manea, meanwhile, remained in the kitchen, humming to herself and fixing us our drinks, but whenever there was a pause, it indicated she, too, was listening with interest.

But she was the only one who did, out of the pair. Keeper’s eyes were dull and flat, the eyes of dead fish, and she neither heeded nor suggested acknowledgment of my words. Once or twice I faltered, and it was up to Celestia to prompt me forward, until I had explained the whole of the beginning of my studies and ended with today. At some point, Manea left the kitchen, and a glass of lime juice was placed in front of me. I had been talking without interruption for more than ten minutes. When I was done, I drank from the glass gratefully, then felt embarrassed; but, once again, Keeper’s face reflected neither offense nor any degree of actual engagement.

I worried I’d bored her, and that I’d somehow ruined Celestia’s visit.

Then Manea sat down next to her. She saved the silence by placing a glass pitcher filled with more juice on the table between us. A lime wedge clung to the rim. She leaned forward with a smile.. “Very impressive, Twilight Sparkle. You must be quite the capable student.”

“She is,” Celestia said. She did so simply, stating a mere fact, but I felt a surge of embarrassed pride. “In fact, she recently finished a particularly important research project…”

As Celestia took over the conversation, Manea nodded approvingly, and suddenly I felt grateful that she agreed, as though for a moment there, I’d worried she would think Celestia was wrong in that assessment. How funny it is that we turn to others, even or especially strangers, for their immediate approval, and dread missing it.

But Keeper remained quiet. It was impossible to tell if she’d heard any of what I said, and I wondered, with perhaps a certain small degree of frustration, if she’d simply fallen asleep. The conversation swept over her head the way the ocean does over sand, and she stared into space, not even acknowledging when Manea happily placed the glass of juice in her hooves.

Was she okay? Or, if she was as old as she appeared, was she slipping into a vault of memories hidden behind that wrinkled, wizened face? Perhaps she was thinking of Sandstone again, or any of those ponies I’d seen in the study. I wanted to ask her about them, why she took those photos—what constituted a “Keeper of the Dead.” But a part of me hesitated. I couldn’t tell if it was fear or dread or simple awkwardness. I looked at her, trying to determine which, but when I did, I felt my head begin to throb, a headache of sorts, the kind that happens when you stare into a dark room for too long.

That was when I realized that Keeper was staring at me as well. I flushed, attempting to save face by drinking the rest of my juice. Her face had slackened. But her eyes had lost their placidity; something had sharpened in them, something that suggested that she was now examining me far more closely than I had her. The headache probed the edges of my skull.

I was saved when Celestia said, “But I did say this wasn’t a social call, did I?” Keeper’s gaze broke away.

“So you did,” she said. “But when is it ever not?”

Beside her, Manea muttered, sounding rather annoyed, “That’s what I said.” Keeper did not respond.

Celestia cleared her throat, then leaned forward. She glanced at me—I wonder if she saw something in my face, some hint of the experience I’d undergone—because then her voice took on a strange urgency, like she was suddenly aware of time she no longer had. “My friend, Count Sesily, is dying.”

I started. Today, Count Sesily is not a name that would warrant more than a footnote in a textbook about the noble houses of Canterlot, but he had been one of the ponies who’d proctored my entrance exam. I remembered him as a long-faced, visibly old, periwinkle unicorn with an aquiline nose and rigid jawline, and hair combed back and dyed black to make him seem younger, as well as his somewhat grating and reedy voice. As far as I knew, he and Celestia had only the briefest of polite interactions. I never knew she counted him as a friend.

“Already?” Manea said, clicking her tongue. She retrieved the pitcher, topped off her drink, then sipped at it.

Celestia nodded. “Thoracic cancer. Stage four. He’s refused treatment for years.”

“I remember when he was still stomping around the Academy grounds? What a character. I didn’t think they built egos that inflated.”

“How time flies,” Keeper said gravely, “and how little stallions change.”

“Wait,” I said to Manea, “you knew Count Sesily when he was younger?”

Manea smiled cryptically. She offered nothing else.

Celestia’s horn lit, and with a flash, she summoned into existence a small book. The cover opened to reveal her signature elegant hoofwriting, but I didn’t get a good enough look to read what was written before she levitated it over to the pair of mares.

Keeper, with a hoof, brought the page up to her face. Her eyes made small, near imperceptible movements while she read. Manea joined her over her shoulder. She whistled. “Ooh, tomorrow? A bit sudden, isn’t it?”

“I’m told his condition deteriorated rapidly this morning. Tomorrow may be too late,” Celestia said quietly.

“It will not be,” the Keeper intoned, in such a declarative and certain voice that I was sure she was somehow right, even as I didn’t understand the gravity behind it. Keeper then turned to Manea. “Our schedule is clear for tomorrow?”

Manea frowned, left the room, and returned holding that ledger I’d seen on the desk. She flipped through a few pages. “Looks like it. The only thing coming up is about that new prince in Saddle Arabia. But that’s not until next Monday.” She looked at Celestia and winked conspiratorially. “A few months old, that one.”

Celestia, I noticed, stiffened ever so slightly. She said, “But so it goes.”

“So it goes,” Manea repeated. Keeper grunted the phrase.

Their meanings and intentions flew over my head, and I could feel myself growing agitated by the apparent gap in cognizance. More than that, I felt like I was being pushed out of the conversation. The adults were talking, and it was the child’s role to sit on the outside, play with her blocks—but wasn’t I no ordinary child? Wasn’t I Celestia’s faithful student?

Suddenly I realized what my position was, for her. How I acted and what I said or thought reflected on her teachings; I affected her reputation, and the perception of her, more than her daily meetings with the elite. I could not stomach the idea that I was, by orbiting around these three mares and not saying anything, demonstrating some failing on Celestia’s part. I wanted to get involved. I had to.

“What are you going to do?” I asked, leaning forward and adopting a bright-eyed, curious expression. “Are you going to take Count Sesily’s photo? You are, aren’t you? And then you’re going to put it up in that room!”

Innocent inferences, really. But by the thunderstruck expression on Celestia’s face, contrasted sharply by the lack of emotion on Keeper’s, you would have thought I’d just spat on her mother’s grave. I squirmed under both their gazes. “I… I was just… It’s because of what I saw,” I said defensively. “In the other room.”

Manea was the only one who looked pleased, but there was something to her smile that felt off to me. She, however, said nothing, looking like a spectator at a particularly bad tennis match. I cringed under it, feeling more ashamed by her apparent approval than lack thereof, for a reason I didn’t understand.

“I was curious,” I heard myself say, almost reflexively.

“Well, being curious is fine,” Manea said. “Curious fillies ask good questions.”

Keeper glanced at her, then at me. “You’re asking me what is the nature of my work, child?”

“Y-yes?”

“You do not know if you are asking that?”

“I… N-No, I mean… Yes, I guess I—I mean, I am asking you that.”

Keeper’s face remained impassive. But I got the feeling she was evaluating me.

Celestia cleared her throat. Then said with a smile, “Twilight, dear, why don’t you help Manea clean up while we talk?”

I was shocked. Ashamed. Tears sprang to my eyes. I felt immediately foolish, and nodded, keeping my head down so that nopony could see my face. I got up off the couch and trudged towards the kitchen. Manea joined me, bringing with her the pitcher and the cups stacked impressively atop one another.

“Don’t feel bad,” she said, touching me on the shoulder. “It was a fair question. Keeper’s particular about her job, and doesn’t like to talk about the ins and outs with most ponies.”

I nodded, but still felt slighted by the act. Glancing behind me, I saw that Celestia and Keeper were now engaged in some deep conversation, their voices too low for me to hear.

“Do you know a quick-dry spell?” Manea asked, tearing my gaze away.

“Um… I think so.” Hesitation tasted bitter to me, so I amended: “I mean, yes, I do.”

“Great! Here, I’m going to dunk these dishes, and then you can fire away at them, and we’ll put them away together. Sound good?”

I nodded, and Manea began the task. She moved with alarming speed, and seemed to delight in this mundane activity. She scrubbed inside and outside and set the dishes down for me to zap. I stared at the first dish morosely, and had to be prompted by Manea.

Soon we fell into a rhythm. There was a game-like quality to it, too, and Manea was even humming as she sashayed about. She had turned the water all the way up; outside of her voice, I couldn’t hear anything above the faucet.

Still, I performed sluggishly. The slap of dismissal still clung coldly against my fur, dragging my movements and causing a backlog of dishes to pile up. I paused frequently, trying to catch a snippet of whatever was being discussed between my mentor and the old mare on the couch, failing each time, and returning, thus, to this task, and growing more and more crestfallen with each failed attempt.

“So!” Manea exclaimed. “What are you studying right now, Twilight?”

I knew what she was doing. But I answered, as politely as I could, “Classical Equestrian myths.”

Manea’s eyes seemed to sparkle, and suddenly I was assaulted with a deluge of questions from her. But they were not generic questions, the kind I might have heard from a condescending adult who was only asking them out of politeness and who, upon hearing my immediate answers, would realize they were out of their element and would seek the quickest means of escape. No, these were intelligent questions, born out of an informed context. I wondered if she had taught this subject before—how else could she ask me questions of interpretation, of variations, of what is lost in translation or might be lost in the act of removing a story from its oral origin?

In this way, my mood gradually and consistently improved. I soon forgot about the faux pas I had experienced from Celestia. We spoke about the most common myths and how modern Equestrians wrote of them, and Manea even brought up obscure ones that I’d yet to read in any book. “Such as the Mare in the Moon,” she suddenly said as we were finishing up the dishes.

“The Mare in the Moon?”

“You must have seen her when you look out at night, right? A shadow that looks like a mare.” She glanced at them, smiling, then handed me the last dish. “Oh, you’ll find out about her in time, I’ll bet, if you keep up your studies. You’ll enjoy it, I think.”

Then she added, in a manner that almost certainly was deflective, and yet which, at the time, I didn’t notice, “You are one smart filly. I like you, Twilight Sparkle."

“Thank you.” I flushed at the compliment, forgetting immediately about the obscure myth she’d invoked. Then, because I thought I needed to return the remark, I said, “I like you as well, Manea.”

“Really?” She turned, her eyes so large they resembled dual eclipses. “Do you really mean that?”

I nodded rapidly. “I mean, you seem like a nice pony. And you take care of your mom.” It did not occur to me that I was making the wrong inference; I simply said what I thought was a noble thing and hoped it would come across that way.

Manea smiled. “That is true. I do take care of her.” She finished putting the last of the dishes away, and then craned her neck to look closely at me. “Do you like me more than you like her?”

On a few occasions, Celestia had invited me to observe Sun Court. It was an event where nobles and other high-class ponies would gather in the throne room and await an audience with Celestia. When I stood outside, watching the queue grow longer and longer, I’d overhear snippets of conversations and snide comments. Each pony thought themselves as being more highly regarded than the other in the princess’s eyes, for one reason or another: perhaps by how she’d acted towards them at the last Sun Court, or how she remembered their name at the last dinner party, or even how she spoke to them, what words she used. Innocuous and completely meaningless gestures that nevertheless achieved greater meaning when put in the context of a social ladder. These ponies would look around, thankfully never at me, as though asking one of the guards or castle staff to justify that assertion.

So when Manea said this, I knew my answer would be used later, when Celestia and I were gone, and Manea could parade it in front of Keeper.

I backed up a little. Manea stared at me, all smiles, but there was a predatory aspect to both her eyes and her grin. I was reminded of something absurd: how a praying mantis can sit and stare at its prey, not moving, only to strike at the last second once its opponent’s guard is down. Nothing about Manea was bug-like, and yet this image rose to mind, fitting around Manea’s head like a shawl.

Then it seemed that the kitchen grew a little colder. A brief reminder of what I’d felt at the door.

“I wouldn’t say that,” I said. My mouth hurried along and I couldn’t get the next words out any faster: “I only just met you two today. I’d have to talk to you both to be fair.”

Something in Manea’s expression slipped dangerously away, like how a crevasse can open suddenly in front of you if you go spelunking. A dark thing passed over her expression, the shade of some disturbing thought. But in an instant, she had returned; her face was back to normal; she still smiled, and she even laughed. “Right, of course! Oh, I’m sorry to have made it seem like I’m jealous of her. I’m not, really. I was just curious! So many ponies know Keeper, of course, but not many think of me.”

“Oh. Do you resent that?”

She didn’t answer. Instead, she opened the refrigerator and took out an oblong-shaped fruit. She placed it on a cutting board, retrieved a knife from a drawer, and with expert precision, split it into small pieces. A few she stuck in a jar, but one piece she put into a small cup and turned to me. “Do you think you could do one more thing for me, Twilight Sparkle? It is a small matter, a trifle, really.”

Manea placed the fruit cup before me. “Would you go into the room at the end of the hall—the opposite hall, not the one leading to the study—and place this on the table you see in there? It’s almost snack time.”

I thought I had offended her, and that she was now sending me away. I wanted, then, to make it up to her, so I eagerly accepted the task.

As I did, I stopped just around the pillar separating the kitchen from the living room. Celestia and the Keeper had stopped talking, but were both now looking at the manuscript Celestia had summoned with such serious expressions that I knew I could never interrupt whatever ritual was passing before my eyes. I felt a pang of sadness at this. It was a reminder of Celestia’s age and the many connections she had made long before I had met her, let alone had been born. Sometimes when I was with her visiting the various heads of houses and families, she would speak with a frank familiarity with them, and they would reply with a kind of laugh or a turn of their head that seemed like an inside joke whose punchline was beyond my reach. That surprised or even disheartened me, because it represented a barrier I could not overcome: the fact that she would forever remain older than me, more experienced, more adept in the ways and customs of the world, and I would always have to play catch-up in some regard. Seeing it here even with strange Keeper brought up ugly feelings, but I pushed these away with the impudent, silent, spiteful protest of a child and returned to bringing the food to the room that required it.

I stopped in front of a closed door, raised my hoof, and knocked. There was no answer. I glanced back at Manea as if to ask if I should try again, but she had vanished from sight. Hesitation kept me from immediately acting, but eventually I drew up enough courage to turn the knob and ease myself into the room.

It was like stepping into a cellar—it was cool, then rapidly became frigid. A cloud of dust burst across my face, and I nearly lost my magical hold on the cup as a violent cough stole my breath. The light from the hallway crept around me but did not get very far. From what I could see, there indeed was a single table—it was a brown disk with a crystal center, on which was the pattern of a flower. But there were no chairs in that room, nor, it seemed, any light switch or source to speak of. Instead of these things, there was situated in the corner a crib.

There was something in the crib.

I tiptoed into the room and placed the cup on the table, aware that I was holding my breath. I released it slowly, then paused, wondering if I had disturbed the crib’s occupant. No sound emerged. I looked at the scone and thought: Could a baby eat this fruit solid? That was assuming there was a baby in that crib.

I cast a basic illumination spell, and a soft purple glow enveloped the room. Shivering, I crept past the table, approached the crib, and leaned over the side.

And found a baby, asleep. I thought it was a filly; something about her facial structure suggested so. She had a stubby little horn and a round head and a small snout, features that would have made anypony coo with adoration. She was also a rich, plum-purple color, so unlike either Manea or Keeper, that I wondered where she got it from. It occurred to me that I hadn’t seen any photos in the house of a father or a husband; the only ones that existed were of those strange effigies in the study. And the filly was asleep, breathing softly, her closed eyes as still as a lake in the early morning, or perhaps the swampy waters outside the house. For a moment, I watched her eyes, curious to see if they would flicker to indicate she was dreaming, but to my amazement, she did not once stir, did not indicate even that she sensed I was nearby. She was in the deepest sleep I’d ever seen, and was perfectly unremarkable otherwise. She could have been any other baby.

I leaned back, suddenly feeling embarrassed. She was a baby–I did not understand why I had been hemming and hawing moments ago. Perhaps the house was getting to me, or I was just anxious and prone to illogical, intrusive thoughts that had no basis.

I shivered again. I wanted to get out of there.

I left the room, careful to keep my breathing low and my hoofsteps quiet, and closed the door silently behind me. But I hadn’t gone two steps from the door when Manea popped up in front of me. “Well? Did you see her?” she asked, putting her face up against mine.

“Um… if you mean the baby–”

“Yes, Twilight, I mean the baby. Did you see her?”

There was an impatience in her voice, reminding me of a difficult teacher I once had who was trying to teach me an apparently simple algorithm and couldn’t fathom why I didn’t immediately understand it. A bit of shame at my ineptitude flushed through me. “I did,” I said, then added, though there really was no need to (now that I am older, I notice that ponies and creatures tend to do this, this “over-correction,” adding extra to a statement as though to give it the appearance of being fuller or somehow better): “She’s a lovely filly.”

Manea nodded, still impatient. “And did she see you? She must have, right?”

I shook my head. Manea froze. “What? What do you mean?”

“She wasn’t awake. I didn’t want to disturb her, so I just put the cup on the table, like you said.”

Manea’s frown deepened. “That’s… But she’s never… She always sees everyone. She’s never not seen… Except…” Her pupils shot off to the side, in the direction of the living room.

She fell into such perplexing mutterings that there was no use trying to draw her back into the present. And at any rate, I was deeply unnerved by her, by this transformation, which was changing her from the mare who had begun to live in my memory as the sweet caretaker of this home, to somepony who followed rules I did not understand, that existed on strata separate from mine. It astounds me how quickly we can go from liking somepony to being put off by them.

I left her mumbling in the hallway and returned to the living room. Princess Celestia and Keeper had, it appeared, finished their business, and I saw Celestia lift the manuscript before teleporting it away. “It’s all settled, then?” Celestia said, a thin line appearing over her brow.

Keeper nodded. “As it will be done. Manea will bring the ledger along with the equipment. You will be returning home now, I imagine?”

It was not really a question. Celestia nodded anyway, then saw me idling by the perimeter. She smiled. I still felt uneasy. “Did you enjoy your visit, my faithful student?”

“I did,” I said, looking at Keeper. She neither acknowledged nor ignored me.

As we gathered ourselves, Manea came out of the hallway, still muttering to herself. I was alarmed to see that she carried the baby in her hooves.

Keeper turned her head. She saw Manea and the baby, and a flicker of something akin to an emotion–one that, of course, I couldn’t identify–passed over her face like a cloud. “Is she awake?” she asked Manea.

Manea shook her head. Keeper made an odd motion, before her head swiveled deliberately and slowly. Her eyes fell on me. They held me there.

By that point we had gone to the door. Celestia heard the question and looked back at the mares, confused. Then she looked at me. I identified the emotions there immediately: surprise, which quickly, with a flash, morphed into fear.

“Well, then,” Keeper said, slowly getting up. “Our business is concluded. Always so early, too. It’s a shame we only meet every now and then, isn’t it, Celestia?”

Celestia nodded, as did Manea. Looking between all three of them, I realized that the roles had changed: Manea had been the talkative sort, but now was dazed and reticent, whereas Keeper had become livelier, speaking excitedly (or as excitedly as her body would allow). She came over and helped us to the door, all the while talking about all the sorts of things ponies say in order to have said something, noticing, no doubt, how, in the span of a few seconds, the atmosphere in that tiny home had shifted. Celestia responded to her kindly, but there was an element of hurriedness in her words that Keeper seemed to acknowledge by speaking even faster and with less significance.

Only Manea, the baby, and I were quiet. Manea’s attention remained solely on the child in her arms, who had not stirred once.

“Take care, you two,” Keeper said, opening the door and revealing the fog-ridden world beyond. I blinked at the sight; somehow I had forgotten how thick it was. “Take care, and do be sure to visit every now and then, won’t you, Celestia? I do enjoy your visits.”

“I will try, Keeper. Manea,” she added, more out of acknowledgement than greeting. Manea didn’t say anything, but she did nod. Her eyes landed on me, and they burned with a question that was equal parts intense as it was wordless. She no longer looked happy to see me, or either of us. In fact, she looked deeply troubled.

I would have asked her what was wrong, but then Celestia’s wing guided me in front of her. “Let’s get going,” she said with a forced smile.

The door closed behind us. It did not make a sound.