The Coachpony.

by j3r034rja34jty

Rating: teen
Tags: Adventure, Tragedy
Length: 2157

What happens when the city's most famous story teller is mysteriously struck dumb?

What happens when the city's most famous story teller is mysteriously struck dumb?
Seven friends gather for seven nights to present Farauk with seven wondrous "gifts" -seven stories of their own design.

-~

Written due to writers block.
Rated teen for reference and use of tobacco and alcohol.

Published 1970-01-01 00:00:00 UTC
Last updated 2012-11-23 11:20:01 UTC

Prologue.

Hey there guys, another story. Thought I would try something new due to a writers block. Constructive criticism welcome.

Prologue.

                It’s a strange story to say the least: Farauk the coachpony has lost his voice. If it hadn’t of happened before my very eyes, I never would have believed it. Every thing started in the year 1859, in August, in the old quarter of Canterlot. Even if I wanted to make up such an incredible story, Canterlot would still be the best place to set it. Nowhere but Canterlot could such a tale take place.

                In those days, many strange people lived in Canterlot. But what’s so strange about that? They say when a city has been lived in continuously for over a thousand years; its citizens inherit the accumulated eccentricities of ages past. And Canterlot can look back several thousand years. So you can just imagine the kinds of unusual ponies running up and down its cooked streets and alleys. Old Farauk the coachpony was the most unusual of them all. He was short and slight, but his deep, warm voice easily made him seem a large pony with broad shoulders, and he was a legend in his own lifetime, which doesn’t mean that much in a city where legends and pastries are but two of a thousand and one delights. With simple light gray coat, and  black-gray mane, he was unmissable

                What with all the coups during the fifties and sixties, it was not unheard of for residents of the old quarter to confuse the names of celebrities, running royal guards, and others of those sort. But no one ever made any mistake about Farauk the coachpony, who lived in a booming city and who could tell stories that clung on to the older times, as would have his listeners laughing, or weeping, or both.

                Among the unusual and usual ponies running up and down the city, there were many who had a suitable saying for any occasion. Yet there was only pony in Canterlot who could produce a story for everything. Whether you had cut your hoof, caught cold, or fallen tragically in love. But how is it that this coachpony Farauk became the most famous storyteller in all of Equestria? The answer to this question involves, as you may have guessed, another story.

                In the 1830s, Farauk worked as a coachpony, driving between Canterlot and Ponyville. Back then the journey took many long  hours. And they were dangerous hours as well, the road wound through the rugged Great Horn Gorge, which was crawling with brigands who earned their daily pay waylaying travelers.

                The coach cars themselves differed little in appearance. They were constructed of iron, wood, and cloth and carried four passengers. The competition for business was merciless; often it was the hardest hoof that decided who would drive.

                When an economical depression came to Equestria, fewer and fewer ponies could afford to travel (other than pegasi, of course), and good Farauk had to devise some way to provide for his family- he had a wife, a daughter, and a son to feed. What’s more, robberies were on the rise, since many impoverished farmers and tradeponies were fleeing to the mountains to earn their bread as highway-ponies. Farauk would quietly promise his guests: “If you ride with me, you’ll make it through without a scratch, and so will all your money and bags.” His good relationship with the robbers enabled Farauk to make such promises. Again and again he would drive from Canterlot to Ponyville and back unmolested. Whenever he entered a bandit’s domain, he would leave a little wine by the side of the road, or else some tobacco- but secretly so the passengers wouldn’t notice- and the robbers would give him a friendly wave. He was never attacked. But after awhile, the secret of his success trickled out, and all the other coachponies began to imitate him. They, too, left gifts by the roadside and were allowed to pass in peace. As Farauk said, it got so that the brigands turned into fat, lazy collectors, utterly incapable of inspiring fear.

                Thus his guarantee of a journey safe from robbers soon lost its unique appeal and Farauk wondered desperately what to do. Then one day an old lady-pony from Ponyville came to his rescue. During the ride, he had recounted in great detail the adventures of a robber who had fallen in love with none other than Richard’s daughter- Farauk was personally acquainted with the pony. When the coach reached Canterlot, the old mare is said to have shouted, “May Celestia bless your tongue, young sir. Time flew much too quickly in your company.” Farauk called this mare his “good fairy” and from then on he promised his clients he would regale them with stories the whole way from Canterlot to Ponyville (or Ponyville to Canterlot) so that they wouldn’t even notice the hardships of the journey. This was Farauk’s salvation, for no other coachpony could tell tales as well as he.

                But how did the old pony-who could neither read nor write-always come up with a fresh story? Quite simple! After his passengers had heard him tell a tale or two, he would ask them casually, “Now perhaps one of you would like to treat us to a story?” There was always somepony, a mare or colt, who would answer, “I have a story that’s absolutely unbelievable, but I swear to Celestia is really happened.” Or else: “Well, I’m not very good at telling stories, but a traveler once told me one, and if you promise not to laugh at me I’ll be glad to give it a try.” Naturally Farauk encouraged all his passengers to tell their stories. Then he would spice them up and pass them on to the next travelers. In this way he always had a fresh and inexhaustible supply.

                Now the story of how the old story teller Farauk was mysteriously struck dumb is a story for a different place, and a different time. Now, we have to learn about the seven friends.

The seven friends.

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.