The Church of the Half Moon

The arrival

Mama was always ethereal, clean, even when she was outside. Most mothers scowled at Pixie and kept their children away from him. Memory, on the other hoof, was kind, as was Mayo. Mayo always nudged her nose into the pudge of Pixie’s cheek, effectively getting Pixie to giggle as he kissed the dog back on her muzzle. Her pants were loud, almost enough to drown out Mama's and Memory's daily chats.

“Genesis Fae,” Memory nodded his head.

“Memory Starbow,” Genesis answered back.

That's where they lost Pixie's attention. Tonight was a grand night; Selene shall show herself to her people, speak to them. Last year, Pixie could not recall the soft voice of the mare of the moon, but during that night, Pixie could explore the soft colors of stone around the Village. Every pony would come, be it old, young, sick, or new. It was also the night of song, a celebration of the birth of music. “Pixie.” Now that's what he remembered; every pony sang, joined in one ghostly voice, those few given the gift of music played to match the song. Memory’s viola leads the group to sing higher. “Pixie.” Then like that light came from the mass, and it was like a weight was being lifted from the group. It made the foal sleepy and also gave him a headache.

“Pixie Dust,” Mama sounded crossed.

The foal placed both hooves on the floor; Mayo’s wet nose pushed into Pixie’s fur, nipping him; the spit of pain rang up through his leg, causing the foal to pull away. Mama, content, started to move again.

As Pixie reminisced about the night of Selene, his thoughts were interrupted by the sight of the grand iron gate ahead. Different faces of the moon were imprinted on the iron, bars curled into crescent shapes, arcing up to meet at a point. The sun’s rays made the crystals on the gate glare into Pixie's eyes. Pixie's attention was drawn to the swirling magic surrounding the gate, casting a mesmerizing glow of cyan, pink, and yellow. The magical glow was barely visible, but it enchanted into every stone placed into the wall. Other ponies lined up as well, some older ones, shifting their weight; others little, chasing each other, through the legs of the wiser pony folk. Loud chatter overfilled them all. Once again, Mama was there, a graceful aura with her, as she floated her pen and paper into her saddlebag. Pixie stood alongside her, putting his head up as high as he could, trying to capture her grace, squinting against the sun.

When the gates swung on its hinges, dust billowed out like wind breezing through the grass. A group entered the gate through the sandstorm. Town folk eagerly galloped towards the few, greeting their arrival. Among the few was a large, Unicorn towering in stature, blocking out the sun. Pixie's eyes adjusted to the brightness, his heart began to sink down into the sand, hitching the foals breathe. The unicorn's dark silvery mask seemed to glare directly at him, it was easier to stare down. The foal notices how large his hooves were, they reminded him of the dinner plates they had at home. Dirt stuck to the horse like a lifeline, unlike Mama who remained unfazed.

“Silver Dollar,” she greeted.

“Genni,” his voice didn't match his looks, “And Pixie Dust.”

“Hello sir,” Pixie replied,

The horse chuffed at Pixie, dust puffing from the holes of his mask like a steam engine. He must have breathed fire. Perhaps that explained why Pixie hadn't encountered this stranger before. As Pixie observed the group more closely, he noticed wagons laden with shining jewels. It only proved his theory, they were scary monsters that hoard all things sacred and pretty. Instinctively Pixie darted behind Mama’s flowing dress. Silver, with his piercing gaze, scrutinized the foal for a solid minute before finally turning away.

Then, a couple entered the town. The gate closed behind them. They stuck out like a shaved tail. Their fur was left in the open, you could see their cutie marks, one a cleaver, the other a single daffodil. They were older Ponies, unsettling and peculiar about the two were their faces. They lack their gift, the mask, leaving their expressions out in the open. Their age was evident in their faces—the colors of their eyes and the way their faces were shaped made Pixie shrink further into the veil of his mother's dress. Below the pair was a single brown colt. He was around Pixie's age, but that led to more questions. Despite feeling his cover slipping away, Pixie couldn't resist stealing a few more glances at his unfamiliar peer.

“I'm going to drop this by the house, I'll catch up to you by Moon high,” Mama said,

“You’re leaving Mama?” Pixie called out trying to catch up, but she ignored him,

“Come on little one,” Silver said, softer this time, “it won't be long until Genni will be back,”

Pixie looked back at the stallion, shrinking into himself as his head tilted down to the floor. Despite following the stallion, he made sure to steer as far as he could get away from him. Silver slouched his head, when he walked. Weak with slow movements, he dragged his hooves in the dirt, like his own mass was weighing down on every bone, pulling him to the ground. Pixie saw the way Silver held back his yawn, as if it was a bomb ready to blow. Those glaring eyes snuck glances down at the little pony, before finally deciding to speak up when the silence outstayed its welcome.

“Have you started school yet?” Silver’s smile could be heard beneath the mask,

“In the next moon cycle I will, sir,”

“Are you excited?”

“Mhm!” Pixie chirped. “I- I mean, yes sir I am. For the fest-...fest-y-vile and for School,”

“Good, but you don't need to call me sir, Pixie,”

“Sorry sir, I mean- sorry,”

There was a moment of Silence that fell between them. Those blue eyes caught onto a strange long stick, with what looked like a metal waxing crescent moon topped on it. By it was another less strange device; Pixie has seen other ponies melting metals into similar molds. Never had he had the correct name; he just knew they made large pops in the target field. Pixie's hooves took over him, gently pressing onto the moon shape that hung from Silver's waist. Those little eyes widened as he felt his body shake out, not being able to contain his energy.

“What is that?”

“Hm?” The stallion shuffled, struggling slightly to see through the holes of his mask, “It's a pickaxe.”

“Pickaxe?” Pixie pressed further,

“Oh well, it's a tool, you know how we decorate the village with pretty rocks? Things like marble, silver, and gold?”

“Mhm,”

“Well, these tools help get them from the ground, so we can bring them here,”

“you bring home rocks?”

“Yes,”

“Aren't they heavy?”

“Ah, yes?”

“that doesn't sound fun,”

“It's not.”

Pixie looked straight thinking hard about his next approach to this question, “Then why do you do it?”

Silver couldn't keep the light chuckle covered. He assumed Mama would have taught him already, but there wasn't a bit of annoyance for having to explain.

“We all have a role, it will make our community thrive, you'll have one, love,”

“...As long as it's not rocks,”

“hm, yeah, then what would it be?”

Pixie's brain fumbled over itself, his eyebrows furrowed in thought, turning up he kept a still tone, “Run,”

Later, as the night made her arrival, the festival sprung forth an air of excitement. Candles sparkled like stars all around the Village, hung from roof top to pillars, tied around strings so they'd hang. Each one had a protective magical sphere around them, giving them color. Foals ran past the pair carrying thin sticks that sparkled like Starfire. Pixie couldn't help but yearn for one of those, they seemed so pretty, as they lit the air in a soft smog. Mama, came back as well, in a different dress, her mane was done up in a curled bun. Her most precious jewelry, which stayed in her box for most of the year, adorned her figure. Mayo was let off her leash, chasing another dog, she kept glancing back at Memory, who was setting up for the night's performance. So much noise filled the area, laughing, screaming, instruments being tuned, animals, everything.

Pixie was so caught up in the madness of the festival that he didn't realize Silver had slipped away. There was a pang of sadness that washed over the foal. It didn't take long for the stallion to return with a small box, stretching it out to Pixie. The foal looked at it, turning to Mother, her attention placed nowhere. So Pixie took the box into his hooves looking down at the text. Sp- ar- k- l- ers. Sparklers. Pixie sprang forth wrapping his hooves around Silver's arm.

“Thank you!”

Pixie could feel a hoof ruffle his mane, as the older stallion returned the hug, “Go have fun,” he said, so Pixie ran off.