A Dolorous Soul

Time Turner awoke with a horrific gasp.

The stallion’s eyes flew open, and his chest heaved as his lungs struggled to provide enough oxygen. He gulped for air in between hyperventilating pants, and his heart frantically hammered away in his chest. The pounding in his ears consumed his entire consciousness.

Gradually, Time Turner’s panic diminished, and his breathing relaxed as the fragments of his dream faded from his mind. The stallion’s body felt like molasses as he sat up from the bed and propped himself up with his forelegs. His sweat-soaked back clung to the sheets, the moist fabric heavy with his perspiration. He squinted, gritting his teeth, and glanced around the bedroom, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the diffuse early morning light. The bedroom was silent, but the stallion could make out a songbird's serenade just outside, beyond the curtains.

Time Turner let out a sigh and tossed the mauve covers from his body, momentarily shivering from the frigid morning air. He swung his hind legs off the bed and slumped at its edge. The stallion lifted his head a few degrees, and his eyes wandered to the nightstand.

His vision landed on the clock, an ugly thing he had cobbled together from whatever gears and pieces could be found. It was missing the minute and second hand, and lacked anything to contain the escapement mechanisms. In the dim light, Time Turner could just make out the lonely hour hand was slightly past the numeral V.

The groggy stallion shook the last remnants of sleep from his head and cleared his throat as he stood up, smacking his lips. The drone of rolling glass grated his ears as Time Turner failed to avoid a collection of bottles next to the bed.

One bottle lazily wheeled into the corner and clinked against a pile of debris. There, in a mangled heap, lay another timepiece, its brass mechanism entrails strewn about. The once elegant and intricate relief of two ponies embracing lay fractured down the middle, the wood split in twain. Time Turner didn’t even spare a glance as he passed, hooves softly tapping on the wood floorboards and then clicking sharply on the ceramic tile upon entering the bathroom.

A severely middle-aged stallion stared back at Time Turner from the mirror. Azure eyes pierced the darkness, bloodshot and puffy, with a hint of yellowing noticeable in his sclera. His light mocha fur was scruffy and stuck out randomly at odd angles. His mane and tail were wiry and ragged, and even his cutie mark had lost its luster. The brass hourglass was dull as if it had gained a patina. If the light was just right, one could make out the peaks and valleys of Time Turner’s ribcage.

Ignoring the cup of toothbrushes, the stallion grabbed a mane brush from the counter and attempted to wrangle his long, unruly mane. As he quickly and roughly brushed, it caught a snag and twisted awkwardly out of his grip. The piercing clatter was deafening in the cabin's pervasive silence.

Time Turner closed his eyes and released the air from his lungs through his nostrils with a measured, even breath. The stallion glanced around the sink for the brush but couldn’t see where it had fallen in the shadows. With a click of his tongue, he turned to the shuttered window and reached up to the slats, the gray morning haze finally illuminating the tiny bathroom.

Momentarily blinded, Time Turner grimaced and stepped back to face the sink. A crescendo of splintering wood pricked his ears, and his heart skipped a beat. The stallion looked down to find the fallen brush under his hoof. He froze as a column of ice shot down his spine. His eyes met with the intricately carved handle, now at an unsettling, off-kilter angle. The gilded rose motif had cracked in two.

Time Turner slowly brought his head to the floor and reverently picked up the pieces in his mouth. He deposited them delicately on the counter beside the sink next to a matching mahogany brush with a clockface relief. He stared at them for a moment, Time Turner’s eyes tracing the jagged edges of the fractured rosewood along the broken golden filigree.

Abruptly, he turned away and walked out to the bedroom. His grooming abandoned, Time Turner tousled his black mane as best he could and turned the corner out into the hallway. His signature green bowtie sat alone on his dresser, and his bed was left unmade.

The stallion shuffled through the barren hallway, devoid of any embellishments or adornments. He approached the basement staircase, the scent of gear oil and sawdust seeping into the hall from his workshop. Down below, a few dozen chronometers lay scattered about the claustrophobic dungeon. The shelves were mostly barren, but a few contained various timepieces, clocks, and even the odd sundial or moondial. The walls above the shelves were lined with various schematics, plans, and diagrams for all kinds of chronometers and projects.

A few partial workpieces sat in various states of completion on Time Turner’s workbench. They lay scattered on their sides, an explosion of mechanisms like fallen leaves covering most of the tabletop. Everything, from the gears and cogs on the bench to his head magnifiers and calipers, had a thick coating of dust.

The stallion furrowed his brow, and he pushed the door shut with a huff. The faulty latch scraped shut, and the thud against the door jam echoed down the hall to the kitchen.

Fresh and vibrant yellow lemons sat on the kitchen counter, standing out among the earthen browns of the rustic wooden cabinetry. Time Turner snagged the bagged lemons and the specially acquired pouch of poppy seeds in his teeth and tossed them over to the cutting board; the citrus aroma tickled his nostrils. He pulled the rest of the necessary ingredients to make pancake batter out from the cupboards and set them to the side with a bowl. The hollow clunk of the cabinet doors echoed around the tiny kitchen.

He let the batter sit as he tossed a log into the stove to catch on the orange glowing coals. He gently deposited three dollops of batter onto the buttered pan with a wooden ladle. The gentle sizzle as they cooked tickled his ears. A few minutes later, the sweet aroma of butter and bread filled the room. He stacked the finished golden-brown pancakes onto a plate and sat himself at the old oak kitchen table. His wooden chair gently creaked as Time Turner pulled himself closer and settled in.

Sunrise peaked in from the window over the sink as the stallion studied his breakfast. A fine mist of steam rose up and caught the sunlight, and flecks of poppy seeds freckled the surface. He picked up his fork and knife and slowly cut a piece from the fluffy stack. As he cut through, his ears flicked from the muted clinks of the silverware. He brought the slice to his mouth, hesitating only briefly before he chewed his bite mechanically. His sky-blue eyes were locked on the empty seat across from him as he continued to precisely cut and consume each bite of his meal, piece by piece.

The high-pitched clatter of the dishes rang in his ears as he placed them in the deep, country sink. He left them sitting there and opened the ice box across from the stove. He pulled out the red and yellow tulips he had foraged the day before and headed back to the hall.

He turned and faced the cabin’s front door. There, his old saddlebags were hanging from the rack beside it. They were well-worn and had served him well throughout their lifetime. Once, it had been a proud olive green, but the sturdy waxed canvas had darkened with the ingress of dirt and grime. The light beige straps had frayed slightly at their edges but had never failed to bear weight. A story told in dozens of little scuffs and tiny nicks of the countless dutiful house calls to repair the clocks and timepieces scattered throughout Ponyville.

He went to lower his bags down and place the flowers within when another bag fell from the rack and crumpled to the floor. A dull thunk reverberated through the floorboards as the contents met the ground. Time Turner stumbled back, looking down to inspect what had fallen. On the floor lay a much less dirty duplicate of his own bag. Its olive green canvas was still vibrant, and the ivory straps looked pristine. The hori-hori was rocking slightly, its cupped six inch blade reflecting a beam of light back and forth across the ceiling. The polished ash handle was immaculate, a small rose engraved on it, and its sheath was stiff and inflexible. A nicked, dented, and slightly rusted trowel lay beside it. The handle was a rich mahogany with scrapes and gouges along its length. The hilt held a small rose medallion in the pommel.

Gingerly, Time Turner placed the tools back inside and returned the bag to its hook. Without looking, He reached back for his saddlebags and quickly smacked the latch for the door. He stepped out into the bright morning sun, walking past the empty garden as he began his trot to the Canterhorn Mountain.