The Coachpony.

Chapter 1.

Every evening seven friends came to call on the old colt. They were all the same age, about seventy. A locksmith named Paf was the biggest among them; he was so big he practically took up the entire sofa. The last to join the old gentlecolts had been the geography teacher, Strafe, and although he had been coming for eight years, the others still referred to him as "our newcomer." Maet, a short and plumpish barber, was the only one in who attempted to hide his seventy years by dyeing his mane. The most elegant of the of the friends was the former royal-guard Faris. Shortly after Equestria went out of a economic depression, he had become the minister of finance, and his success in doing so, earned him the nickname "black year." Tuns, the fifth member of the circle was known as "the emigrant" even though he has returned from the vast nature over ten years before. Juneis, the cafe owner, was the only one of the gentlecolts to whom they were all grateful. It was in his coffee house that hey has come to know as another over the years. For years they had gathered at the cafe: it was far and wide the only place you could sip a genuine Aflian mocha and moke a proper waterpipe. But ever since Juneis' son had ran it into shambles, none of them went there anymore.

The seventh member of the group was a small pony names Isman, who had served  twenty-four years in prison for a terrible murder he did not commit. By chance, the true murderer was caught one year before Isman was to be released. For a pony of seventy years old, he was incredibly restless, as if he wanted to use his remaining years to make up for the time he had lost in prison. From Monday to Thursday afternoon he pulled a small cart loaded with vegetables through the city's more remote neighborhoods. At the Friday market he traded in songbirds. Saturdays and Sundays he sold toasted chickpeas in front of the movie houses.

Farauk liked Paf the best. The locksmith said very little, but he enjoyed listening. He was the perfect complement to the talkative coachpony; although he scarcely spoke, he would laugh at the slightest provocation.  But that wasn't all. Farauk praised Paf as the bravest colt in the neighborhood. In the early forties he supposedly boxed a stealer in the middle of the street. At the time, Canterlot was full of stealers. Paf doesn't like to talk about it. But Farauk the coachpony described the stealers revenge in great detail. The stealer had Paf arrested and taken into the jail outside of Canterlot. There they forced a gallon of red wine into his stomach, then bound him to a stake in the scorching sun. When Paf lost consciousness the stealers dragged him out of the jail and dumped him in a ditch by the side of the road. A peasant family that was passing by found him, and took him in. The old mare gave him a mixture of olive oil, yoghurt, and vinegar to make him vomit, and in that way saved his life.

The seven friends met every evening without exception. Whether it was raining or the Army was staging a coup, they arrived just before eight, and didn't leave until after midnight. If one of them was sick, and couldn't attend, his wife or a grandchild or a neighbors child would bring a detailed explanation. Colds and similarly lame excuse didn't count.

I was the only child in the neighborhood whom the coachpony allowed to stay when the old colt arrived. In return I often had to play errand pony. This wasn't always the nicest of jobs, since the old colts were so forgetful. The emigrant often forgot his tablets and sometimes his glasses, the cafe owner his snuff, and the former royal guard more than a few times forgot his elegant handkerchiefs- and no others would do. Sometimes I had to run these errands in the rain, and their houses were scattered all across the city. Only coachpony Farauk never sent me anywhere. But he did once make me cross my heard and swear to him that I would never reveal a single word I had heard in this room. I swore by the soul of Celestia that I would keep every word to myself. But apart from Farauks's nosy neighbor, no one cared cared what the old colts were talking about anyway; and besides, I never would have told anything to her, even if she had tempted me with chocolate (by of which back then, was fairly rare).

Now and then I had the feeling that old colts sent me out just so they could speak their minds a little more freely.  I acted as if I didn't care understand why one of them would ask me to fetch tobacco for the third time that day or why someone else would request a second tablet only an hour after he had asked for the first one. Faris, the former royal guard, was the worst. He could sneeze at will, whenever he so pleased, and completely fill his handkerchief with snot. Once outside I would dwadle underneath the window and eavesdrop on their secret stories, which usually began: "Now that the youngcolt is gone..."

The seven friends came every day. Over the years their visits became one of the thousand customs of our neighborhood. No one, not a single pony, paid them any mind as they made their way to old Farauk's. Their comings and goings were as much as a port of our daily life as the children's shouts and the chatter of the swallows that filled the sky above our street each evening. All of this changed abruptly when Farauk the coachpony lost his voice. Yes, Farauk, the colt whose magical words transformed his room into an ocean, a desert, or a jungle, was suddenly struck dumb.

Overnight the mute coachpony became the only subject of conversation in the neighborhood. Ponies now followed the movements of the old colts with a curious interest- a stranger might even say, with reverence. Knowing my own street as well as I do, though, I seriously doubt whether its inhabitants have ever felt real reverence for anyone. But the fact remains: ponies were curious. To tell the truth, the whole neighborhood was completely intrigued by Farauk's strange silence. I myself was worried sick. From then on I went to visit him every day and there was no one who could make me leave.