Chapters There’s a pony expression, “like a yak in a china shop,” that has fallen out of fashion in the past few years, coinciding with the time yaks decided to ally with Equestrians. The ponies that cared about such things phased the expression out of their vocabulary, like the way ponies from 10 or so years ago stopped saying a particularly complex or over-patterned outfit was “zebra” (though sometimes they’d still start to say it before looking over at Mahiri and hurriedly correcting themselves). Despite the political incorrectness of the phrase, it’s still the first thing that pops into Mahiri’s mind when she sees the Vanhoover Public Library’s newest visitor.
Though perhaps it’s not entirely apt. The titular yak in the china shop is unaware of the commotion their presence causes, leaving wanton destruction in their wake without sparing a glance at those they might offend. The yak in the library does no such thing. Despite dwarfing just about every pony visitor in size, she shrinks in towards herself, hiding herself behind a veritable fountain of fur. Just looking at it makes Mahiri feel hot. She couldn’t imagine such a specimen surviving a day in Zebrica without succumbing to the worst heatstroke known to zebrakind.
Ponies generally make way for her as they see her coming. Vanhoover is one of the farthest north cities you can get before leaving Equestria (depending on whether or not you count the Crystal Empire as part of Equestria, and she does not know or care enough about pony history to be part of that debate), so it’s likely at least a few of its citizens have seen a yak before at some point, but they still shuffle out of her way, as if any minute she’ll lose control and go berserk, smashing the first thing she sees.
From the way the yak moves, she might be afraid of the same thing. She takes slow, measured steps, shuffling forward while keeping her eyes trained on the ground, until it becomes clear that she…yes. She’s approaching Mahiri’s desk.
Time for her least favorite part of the job. She much prefers sorting books.
The yak approaches. Clears her throat. “Hello. Um.” She avoids eye contact. Mahiri doesn’t mind that. She thinks it’s rather overrated. “Looking for books about…yaks.”
Mahiri raises an eyebrow and says the first thing that comes to mind. It’s rather rude, which is an unfortunate trend with her. “Wouldn’t you know all about them already? You’re your own favorite subject, from all I know.”
The yak shakes some of that endless hair out of her face. “Can’t ask other yaks. Freya needs--I need--somebody who knows about…magic.”
Her accent is a little less pronounced than that of other yaks, but it might just be because of how much time she takes with each of her words, and how soft they all are. The last word is almost whispered.
“Magic? Why would a yak need to know about magic?”
Ask any yak, and they’ll tell you that yaks are the best at everything. Just about everything, anyway. The only things yaks aren’t the best at are things that they were never in the running for at all--and that includes magic, because yaks don’t do it. Magic in the presence of a yak is considered a bit pretentious at best, and a grave insult at worst. Magic is cheating, taking something that should be done through hard work and hoof grease (and brute strength) and just doing it with a thought (and often some complex mathematics but yaks have no interest in that part, largely). Yaks are too good for magic, for pony magic or zebra magic or changeling magic or any other kind.
The yak before Mahiri’s eyes widen, glistening with…tears? Is whatever she’s here about really that serious?
“Hard to explain,” she says, voice almost softer now. “But…important. Really important. Need to know if other yaks--if any yaks…have written about yak magic. ”
And yes, alright, this is when Mahiri actually starts paying attention.
Because yes, there is a chance this yak is messing with her, though yaks as a species aren’t really known to do that and their humor is significantly more slapstick-based (to describe it generously). There is a chance she’s significantly confused, and perhaps Mahiri should be notifying the authorities rather than humoring her for any longer.
But there is a chance…
There is a chance that this Freya is some kind of a miracle.
And any miracle is simply a scientific phenomenon not fully understood yet, and if Mahiri is the one to observe it, test it, study it, she might finally get the respect she deserves from the scientific community, instead of dismissed as some kind of woo-woo shaman who could never hope to understand magic the way they do, merely harness a small fraction of its power…
Mahiri realizes she never responded to the yak, and also that her eyes might be shining in a bit of a scary way again (that happened a lot in grad school). “Right. Yes. Freya, was it? Finding a book on yak magic might be a bit of a tall order, but I can get you all the books we have on yak culture and all the ones on magical science--erm, thaumaturgy, alchemy, or kinetics?”
Freya blinks at her.
“Right. We’ll start with books on non-pony kinetics and cultural rituals, and expand as needed. Follow me.”
They weave their way through the stacks, Mahiri leading the way confidently. “I like your mane,” Freya offers to her quietly.
She falters in her stride, caught off guard. “Oh. Thank you.”
Mahiri’s mane is short but intricate, woven braids with sections separated by tiny golden beads. Her mother used to braid it for her when she was a filly. It’s one of the few things she keeps from her homeland.
“I like your…saddlebags,” she offers.
The bags are a deep red with little symbols sewn across the flaps of them, meaningless to Mahiri but pretty at least. The yak smiles a little. Probably. It’s hard to tell under the hair.
They come to the sociology section and Mahiri extracts all the books she can find about yak culture, giving them to Freya to balance on her back (it’s not rude if she’s the visibly stronger of the two of them). In the magical sciences section, she pulls out books about non-pony cultural rituals and kinetics.
One of the books has a circle of zebras on the cover, wearing masks and wielding large, glowing staffs, their front hooves not holding the staffs prostrated towards the sky in some wordless entreaty. Mahiri winces at it, and turns that book cover-side down.
They bring the books to a study room with a magical soundproofing enchantment on it. They pile all the books onto the table there, and Mahiri sits in one of the available chairs. Freya doesn’t fit in the chairs, but if she sits on the floor, her head can still extend above the table.
Mahiri tries to sound normal when she speaks, leaving out any warble of excitement or desperation. “Okay. Nobody in the library can hear us inside this room, so in case you’re worried about who will overhear or anything like that, you don’t have to be nervous about that anymore. Freya, what’s the real reason you’re looking at books on yak magic?”
Freya makes tiny circles on the table with one hoof. “Something happened. At home.”
“Something happened to you? ”
Her head dips in assent.
“What was it?”
The hair conceals her eyes again. “It can’t…shouldn’t have happened. Yaks can’t…yaks don’t do magic. ”
“Sure,” Mahiri says, trying so very hard not to sound too impatient, “but if that’s all you came here to say, why are we reading all these books to find out something we both already know? Do yaks not do magic, Freya? Or have none of them done it yet? ”
Both of her hooves are on the table now, and she hurriedly takes them off. “Not that I’m interrogating you or anything,” she adds. “It’s just…this could be big. If what you’re implying is true, this could change our whole understanding of yaks, maybe even our understanding of magic depending on just how it manifests--”
“Don’t think it’s all yaks,” says Freya, slightly louder now, though it’s still just about a normal speaking voice for any other creature. “It might just be…”
She doesn’t finish, so Mahiri does it for her. “Just the one?”
“Mm-hm.”
Mahiri sighs. “Look. I know you’re nervous. Obviously. I know you’re not very comfortable right now, but I can’t help you if I don’t know what’s going on. I have an idea , but I don’t have all the facts, and I think you’re the only one who can give them to me. I’m not going to do anything bad, I just…I want to know. I like knowing things. I like understanding things. I want to understand why you’re here. I want to help you.”
She almost says something devastatingly sappy, like I’m your friend, but doesn’t because she doesn’t want to outright lie to the poor yak. Whatever the new Reigning Princess might think, friendship isn’t something you give out to just any creature that crosses your path, no matter how useful for future research she might be. Friendship is highly overrated, in Mahiri’s opinion, and Twilight Sparkle really should have stuck to publishing her journals in Magical Workings Weekly. Politicians always disappoint sooner or later.
“Zebra wants to help? Really?” Freya asks, and yes, that’s a note of earnestness in her voice. She has her now.
“I’ll do whatever I can,” promises Mahiri.
Finally, after a lot of hoof-shuffling and nervous mumbling, Freya reaches up to brush her fur out of her eyes, and with one final deep breath, launches into her story.
Yaks do many things. Yaks are strong, and yaks smash--but yaks are also hardy, and rebuild. Yaks take pride in who they are and what they can do, but yaks know their limits. Yaks know what they cannot do.
And yaks cannot do magic.
Yaks do not enchant objects. Yaks do not brew potions. Most crucially of all, yaks do not cast spells.
Freya is a good yak. She likes to think she is. A little shy, maybe, but she loves her family, and she loves her home, and she loves being a yak. She loves doing the things that yaks do. She does not do the things that yaks don’t do.
She is just like any other yak.
Except.
Last Yickslurbertfest. Only a few days ago (really so recently? It seems like it’s been longer). Spirits are high. Some yaks get carried away. Not unusual.
The mountain responds.
A blanket of snow comes crashing down, hurtling to meet the village, called by the yaks’ show of power. This has happened before. Another time, the ponies arrived to help. Perhaps they might come again, once they hear of what has happened, but Yakyakistan is far and food is already scarce and a missive might take days to reach them--
--and Freya has a brother at home, only a calf, whose fur is still thin in comparison to the adults and who will struggle with even the normal winter’s cold--
and she looks at the snow coming down, and something in her shoves it back.
The snow glows blue and retreats as though pushed, shoved back into place atop the mountain where it belongs, and every yak turns to look at Freya, and then they turn to each other to whisper…
…and Freya moves on her own, running home to her hut, frantically tossing things aside and throwing on a pair of saddlebags, more and more panicked as she hears hoofsteps coming towards the hut, and she bursts out, running past her parents as they try to intercept her and running away from the village square and out the gates and down the mountain and onto the first train from the Crystal Empire, not knowing where she’s going but needing it to be anywhere that is away.
Mahiri realizes her mouth is hanging open and screws it shut. Despite not having said anything for the past few minutes, Freya’s more and more frantic retelling has somehow made her feel sympathetically short of breath.
“You just ran away? Without saying a word to your family or anyone?”
It’s hypocritical of her to say that with such shock, a voice inside of her whispers. It’s not like she did all that much more when leaving home. Sure, a cursory goodbye to her mother, but did she listen when she begged her to reconsider? Asking if she was sure she wanted to go so far away, surely there were places for science that weren’t quite so very far, wouldn’t she get cold all the way to the north, would she ever visit…
and Mahiri had said she’d packed a coat, and she’d left.
(and despite it, it is still very cold in Vanhoover.)
“Scared,” Freya says. “Shouldn’t have done it. Don’t know how it happened, but yaks don’t do magic. So if Freya does magic, Freya is…”
She stares at the table again. “Freya is no yak.”
Despite herself, Mahiri lashes her tail and scoffs loudly. “Please. Magic or lack of has no bearing on species ties. For Sparkle’s sake, do you see me doing alchemy in a little wooden hut on the other side of the country? I’m a zebra of science, and I’m no less zebra for it.”
(So she tells herself.)
Freya looks a bit shocked at Mahiri’s outburst. “But…no other yaks can do anything like what Freya did. It’s not…normal. Freya wants to be a normal yak. ”
“Normal is overrated,” shrugs Mahiri. “You are so much more than that, Freya. You’re interesting-- no, you’re groundbreaking! If we went to Canterlot, showed Princess Twilight the things you could do--”
“No!”
It’s the first time she’s shouted, and it might be Mahiri’s imagination, but it feels as if the room gets significantly colder when she does.
“Don’t want to be…some kind of project. Or experiment. Just want to…go home and have everything be like it was before.”
Freya rests her head on the table. “Didn’t want this.”
Something lances through Mahiri, white-hot, and she realizes after a split-second that it’s the greenest envy she’s ever felt. After all this, after saving her village, and she still wants to be just like every other yak? Mahiri doesn’t even know all the things she’d do to have something like that, something that would make ponies stand up and finally take notice of her. Undeniable, irrefutable evidence that she was talented, and not just because she could mix a potion or two.
All she has ever wanted is to be special, and now she’s learning the creatures that are don’t want to be.
That’s not what Freya wants to hear, though. So she doesn’t say that. Any of it.
“Well. Who knows? Even I haven’t read every book in here. Maybe we’ll learn that you’re not the only yak with magic. Perhaps it’s some sort of recessive trait, wherein yaks used to all be magical but as they used it less and less and relied on their strength more often, it was bred out with the occasional exception--earth ponies have unicorn foals, after all…I have plenty of theses!”
Freya doesn’t look any more cheery. Right. It probably won’t particularly cheer her up to learn that one other yak 200 years ago had magic and then died.
Maybe she should be digging into the other issue, then.
Yuck. That one involves so many more feelings.
“So if you really want to just go home, why don’t you?”
“They all know what happened! They know about the magic, they know Freya isn’t…they know I am no yak. Not the right kind, anyway.”
“Listen. Don’t you all have a whole thing where some creatures can become ‘honorary yaks?’”
“Yes, but…don’t understand connection.”
“Even if we follow your hypothesis here and declare that you are, in fact, not a yak because you can do magic, you’ve been raised by yaks, follow yak customs, and have lived your life as part of a yak family. If you wouldn’t at least be considered an honorary yak, who would?”
Freya looks to consider this, cocking her head to one side as her hair waterfalls down. “What if they still don’t care? What if they want to exile me?”
Mahiri sighs. “Then I will lecture them. I’ll lecture them all, and then they’ll agree to anything just to get me to stop.”
“Zebra is good at talking,” concedes Freya. “It might work.”
Mahiri nods. She is good at talking. She appreciates that someone has noticed.
A thunderous stomping interrupts their conversation. Mahiri nearly dives under the table, thinking it’s an earthquake, but no alarm sounds, so she goes to the window to test her second hypothesis.
It turns out to be correct.
Two large yaks, bigger than Freya but not nearly as furry, are engaged in a loud discussion with a nervous-looking pony who eventually points a hoof in the direction of the library.
As soon as Freya reaches the window, she gasps and ducks under it. “My parents,” she whispers.
Somehow Mahiri had a hunch about this relationship.
“Do you want to talk to them?” she asks, attempting gentleness but possibly hurtling over into therapist-tone.
Freya shakes. “Yes. No. Yes…but what if they’re here to sentence me to exile? ”
Mahiri gives her most deadpan stare. She’s spent years perfecting it. “Why would they come all the way from Yakyakistan to tell you you need to stay out of the place you already left? ”
“But then why are they here?”
“I’m just throwing this out there, but maybe, just maybe, they’d like to talk about you running out without saying anything, because they love you, and they don’t care if you can do magic or not. That’s just my theory, though. As a rather gifted scientist.”
Freya shuffles her hooves. “Can we go see them…together?”
She looks hopeful. Freya feels safe around her, for some reason. That’s…unusual.
But maybe she doesn’t hate it.
“Sure,” says Mahiri.
She wonders if Freya might still let her write a research paper about her if she leaves out her name and only refers to her as “the subject,” but maybe that’s a question for another time.
They leave the study area, and head towards where Freya’s parents are now arriving.
Author's Note
mahiri is a very fascinating character to be in the head of and i'd like to do more with her another time. she still has a lot to learn, after all!
