Limits of the Horizon

by Beware The Carpenter

8 - Mad Mares

The train hadn’t even pulled into the station before it began boiling over with young ponies, bubbling with excitement as they scattered every which way. There were only so many acres of available camping grounds in the shanty town that sprung up around Ponyville this time of year; and it was a race against time, and everyone else, to get the best spots.

Hotel prices quadrupled, and anyone with a spare room could charge premium so long as they were careful in choosing their tenant. The rest camped in the fields; except for those lucky few who had family or close friends living in Ponyville willing to host them; this privilege applied in particular for three young stallions and an adolescent mare that got off the train after almost everyone else had left, and began trotting with disciplined leisure towards Sweet Apple Acres.

Clastic Strain led the way; his wings tucked under a warm tunic which would protect him from unwanted attention that might delay them from reaching the farm by one-thirty. Of course, no one would actually care if they didn’t turn up until midnight, but they were minor royalty and needed to act like it, that meant keeping your word in every situation. Being the oldest, dad had left him in charge for the holidays, meaning if anything went wrong, it was on him.

Crossing the bridge, they passed over a makeshift shipping yard where earth ponies were improvising wooden racing kayaks, and under a cloud-dock where pegasi were fashioning clouds for a similar purpose, they left Ponyville proper and entered the shantytown which was wrapping itself around Sweet Apple Acres.

Behind Clastic Strain; Crackle Jack was rehearsing out loud for his improv comedy club, even though he knew that no one was listening. Behind him, Benefair was insisting to Winnow for the eleventh time that, a fifteen year old colt shouldn’t be in a wargames tournament that went until one in the morning, even if it was based off semi-historical battles from the Solar War.

While the time factor was one reason Clastic Strain didn’t want Winnow to go; his real objection was that he didn’t trust the colt who’d invited Winnow to fill a vacancy on the thesteral side of the game as they, ‘slaughtered the frail sun-lovers’. Winnow kept insisting that Board Swipe was a good guy, even if he liked playing the bad guys in games; but Clastic Strain had made his ruling and Benefair was willing to enforce it, which Clastic Strain was grateful for as he really didn’t have time for this.

Climbing the steps to the farmhouse veranda; Clastic Strain knocked on the door, and waited. There was a slow, steady creak and the door opened to the image of an ancient, gray stallion; scarcely visible under a shaggy white beard, massive folds of wrinkled skin and large bushy eyebrows hiding sunken, bloodshot eyes; “Hi Big Macintosh; two-thirty, right on time.”

“Eeeyup.”

“You doing OK?”

“Eeeyup.”

“Family OK?”

“Eeeyup.”

“Any questions?”

“Nnope.”

“Well… I guess we’ll go up to our rooms now.”

Big Macintosh stood aside for the young royals who had barely made it in the door before being caught by an indoor tornado of crazed amiability known as Pinkie Pie, who collided with the royal siblings and her husband in a whirlwind of jokes, hugs and balloon animals which exploded on impact. Clastic Strain had lived through similar attacks before, but this one seemed unnatural, as if Pinkie was trying to freak everypony out.

Clastic Strain forced himself to smile. If Pinkie thought he was unhappy she would never leave him alone, never stopping to think that she might be the thing that was bothering him. She probably imagined that he was excited to be there, and was grateful to her for ‘inventing Youtherd,’ as she claimed. In reality, most of the festival had developed mostly independently of her, but he couldn't deny that she had planted the seed, through the aftermath of her brief yet tyrannical reign as town mayor.

After the uprising, the next mayor Lyra Heartstrings disbanded the secret giggle police and reverted The Fortress of Laughter back to Town Hall, but tried to keep some semblance of Pinkie’s promise of making Ponyville the party capital of Equestria. The proceeding attempts at a highly regulated annual music festival were largely unsuccessful however and it wasn’t until Lyra resigned for psychological reasons, and Rumble became mayor that the framework for what became the highly popular and profitable, crowd-sourced festival of Youtherd were laid.

Clastic Strain wished he was home, but knew that it was important for the youngest members of the royal family to be seen doing something which was quickly becoming considered part of normal adolescence. He wished he could house anywhere but Sweet Apple Acres, but knew that keeping strong bonds between the families of the elements of harmony was a matter of strategic importance.

When the first wave of Pinkie’s assault lulled, Big Macintosh, who had frozen stiff when Pinkie appeared, suddenly became animated, retreating down the hallway at a pace just slow enough that he wouldn’t attract his wife’s attention. Clastic Strain watched Big Mac’s example and then followed suit; leaving his younger siblings to deal with Pinkie as he ducked into the kitchen where he was met with a peaceful reprieve, and the sane pink mare who inhabited Sweet Apple Acres, “Hi Tia.”

Diamond Tiara looked up from where she had been making apple jam on the stove, and poured him a glass of lemonade which he accepted gratefully, “How’ve you been Cl-”

The remainder of Tia’s greeting was inaudible over the squawking of a chicken that Pinkie had drafted into her welcoming committee. Clastic Strain grimaced; “… Is it just me, or is Pinkie acting even weirder than usual?”

Tia sighed, “She’s trying to compensate for the triplets being gone; she misses them.”

“Big Mac looks a lot better though, I don’t think I’ve ever seen him so relaxed.”

“Well you try sleeping in the house when the triplets are here, bouncing off the walls all night.” She leaned forwards and lowered her voice,“FYI, the triplets wrote home about meeting you in Fillydelphia. They say you owe them a game of cupcakes.”

Clastic Strain shuddered at the memory, and turned the conversation towards Canterlot.Tia listened carefully as Clastic Strain told her the latest with Applejack, Fancypants and their kids; then with rapturous attention as Clastic Strain talked about Apple Bloom, Case Wright and their foal Zap Apple.

Clastic Strain didn’t mind answering Tia’s peppering of questions about when Apple Bloom’s second foal was due, and listening to her fervent speculations that it was going to be a filly was amusing, borderline contagious. At one forty-five however, the alarm chimed, and Pinkie set off to for her appointment to open Ponyville’s new water slide. Clastic Strain guessed that that gave him about half an hour to get his family organized, and get out of there before Pinkie got back.

He pacified Diamond Tiara by giving her the picture Zap Apple had made of his Aunt Tia; which she took with the enthusiasm of a toddler, and the carefulness as if she were holding one. It wasn’t a picture really; more like a pink, vaguely pony shaped blob with a lavender squiggle at the top. Nevertheless, the wavy smile on the pony-blobs face, held more likeness to the Tia Clastic Strain knew, than the portrait of the fourteen year old brat which hung in Tia’s bungalow behind the barn.

Clastic Strain took Tia and Apple Bloom’s word for it that they weren’t always friends; usually he had a hard time imagining it, but when he looked at the portrait, he could almost envision the bully that Diamond Tiara ruefully described. It was one of the few possessions she had from her old life, and kept it in the centre of the mantelpiece as a reminder of what the Apples had been willing to take in after her father was sentenced to life imprisonment, her mother threw her out of home and her own extended family rejected her. It was a reminder of what she must never be again.

While Tia examining her new portrait, Clastic Strain slipped out, and made a final base check with his family. Winnow would be painting his wargames figurines in the farmhouse, after which he would attend the daytime tournament, playing as the Solar Knights and be back by ten. Crackle Jack was going to hang out with his improv comedy club and then catch a movie; and Benefair would be working on recording a music album for charity with her friends. With that, the four siblings shot off in different directions.

There was a shout, a loud crash, and then a wave of laughter followed by something heavy being thrown out Sugar Cube Corner’s doors and into the fountain outside, causing the laughter to re-double. Clastic Strain sat with his back turned to the debacle, trying to catch his elusive concentration and glue it to the piles of homework that buried the four-person table in front of him.

Technically, the rest of Professor Sparkle’s students had just as much homework as he did, but they were unicorns, meaning magic was the only thing they were expected to study; whereas Clastic Strain needed to study flying, cloud crafting and weather patterns as well. There was one other alicorn in his class, but Cloud Run came from a normal family, meaning he didn’t have to attend any royal functions, or knighting ceremonies or security drills; Clastic Strain needed to attend all three.

On the chair beside him was the first edition of the Youtherd newspaper; which, for now, was mostly a schedule for open door parties, races, movie showings, sports events, music performances and whatever other activities were on that holiday. If someone wanted to hold a race, all they had to do was pass a note with the place and time to a group of media students and a few dozen ponies might turn up. If a music band wanted to get a chance to showcase their music, they put an ad in the paper and the chances of a decent crowd were good.

More Youtherd papers would be published bi-daily, informing of newly planned activities and reporting the results of previous events. The seventh paper would be published as a history of the event, like a school yearbook. If you did something noteworthy, you would be noted, if you did something stupid, you would be laughed at.

Clastic Strain looked carefully through the newspaper and ranked each activity with a one, two, three, or four. Fours he didn’t want to do, threes he wanted to do but definitely wouldn’t have time, twos he wanted to do but almost definitely wouldn’t have time, ones he really wanted to do and might have time for, if he studied well.

After two minutes of staring off into space; Clastic Strain flipped through his homework list looking for something easy to start with. If only – “Muffin?”

Clastic Strain smiled at the voice, turning to see Dinky Hooves standing behind him with the promised sweet; and suddenly his homework didn’t seem as annoying. “Thank you” he smiled, taking the muffin with his wing.

“That’ll be seven bits.”

“…I thought you were offering it to me for free.”

“I never said that; and now you’ve touched it, so you have to pay.”

“They’re listed at the counter for three.”

“Four bits for our great delivery service.”

Clastic Strain repressed a laugh, and then held out ten bits to Dinky’s waiting grasp. After pocketing her money, Dinky lingered, looking over his shoulder; “More homework from Twilight?”

“Yea, every year I keep thinking Professor Sparkle couldn’t possibly give any more homework, then I get my homework and last year’s work seems easy.”

“Awwww” whined Dinky, “You mean she’s not Aunt Twily anymore?”

“Nope.”

Dinky picked up his master checklist of homework and breezed over it quickly before giving it back to him, “I finish my shift in about eight minutes; if you want I’ll give you a hoof.”

“Thank you.” Breathed Clastic Strain in relief, but by then Dinky had already turned and trotted over to the next table; her light blond mane bouncing cheerfully down her pale lavender shoulders.

Dinky was a familiar mystery which beguiled Clastic Strain’s unwitting curiosity. Most of what he did know about her came second or third hoof from Ponyville locals, and was often contradictory whereas Dinky always avoided talking about her own childhood seriously. On a personal level however, Clastic Strain knew her better than any of the ponies who he’d learned her story from.

Most people in Ponyville would never see Dinky as anything more than the delusional bastard child of a sociopath who took advantage of a retard. Only a few would ever see, and even fewer admit, the simple truth that Clastic Strain had long-since realized. Dinky was stone cold brilliant.

Whether it was because of, or in spite of her history, Clastic Strain didn’t know.

Dinky’s mother was a retired mail mare named Derpy, plagued with mental and physical disability since childhood; her father… didn’t deserve to be called a father, or pony for that matter. Clastic Strain knew very little about him, except that he seemed to have fallen out of the sky about twenty-five years ago; and within a few days had manipulated his way into Derpy’s home, taking every advantage of her naivety and inflated compassion.

Nine months after the Dinky’s father arrived, there was a cheap wedding ceremony and two months later, Dinky was born. They lived on the outskirts of town, far out of earshot of the closest neighbor; which Dinky’s father exploited without mercy. Nopony knew… exactly went on; though every person he talked to whispered new speculations about torture and depravity; with the only detail remaining constant being the tiny blue box which Dinky’s father would lock her in for days at the time. Whatever happened, it seemed obvious that Dinky’s father was using her as a test subject for some experiment, causing her to age and grow rapidly.

If Derpy ever tried to protect her daughter, her only results were the bruises and bandaged limbs, which she unwaveringly refused to explain to other ponies. Ponyville watched on as Derpy was crushed under the weight of her misery, breaking her cheerful, careless demeanor and leaving only a graying, dismal mare whose only real chance to give her daughter a chance in life ended with disaster.

When Dinky was just two, she showed the physical and mental signs of a filly four times her age and, with enough persuasion, Derpy managed to enroll her in Mrs. Cheerilee’s school; but it never lasted. Dinky spent almost every class continually shouting out that virtually everything the schoolbooks said about history and science was wrong, talking about ice that burned or stars that were sentient and a thousand other impossible things.

She was the only student that Mrs. Cheerilee ever gave an F to in show and tell, for bringing in a bronze helmet which Dinky insisted was the authentic helmet of Commander Hurricane, despite the facts that the real artifact was held in Canterlot National Museum, made of iron, had a completely different design, and the helmet Dinky had was obviously new.

She spoke occasionally to the other students, but never made any friends and was teased mercilessly for her antics by Diamond Tiara and Silver Spoon. Even then, rather than responding sensibly, Dinky retaliated with threats of locking Diamond Tiara inside a mirror for all eternity, but that just made things worse.

After just three months, Mrs. Cheerilee lost patience and told Dinky to stand outside until she was willing to deny that the sofas at her house had their own book club. Dinky went home and that was the end of her formal education.

How it was possible for an entire town could have been so silent, when the signs of abuse were so obvious was a malfeasance which Clastic Strain would never understand. Whatever fantasy universe that Dinky had been forced to build around herself to escape reality should have been recognized as a cry for help; but no one had wanted to be the first person to take a stand, and when everyone saw that no one else was doing anything, they used that as justification for their own ruthless inaction.

Apple Bloom said that when Dinky was young, she gained several cutie-marks including pillows, longbows, shoes and dolphins just to name a few. Some lasted a few minutes, others a few hours, but when Dinky turned four, she got a cutie-mark that didn’t go away. Apparently, this marked the end of her father’s research because the next day he walked out, and no one in Ponyville had seen or heard a whisper from him since. (The fact that he vanished mere weeks before The Second Lunar Rebellion left many to speculate possible connections, but nothing could ever be traced or proven.)

The mysterious injuries ceased, but though her rapid aging ended, Derpy never regained her lost years. As for Dinky… she aged normally for a time and then seemed to stop altogether, as if her body was finally making up for the lost years that had been imposed on it, freezing somewhere in its early twenties. Since then, very little in her life had changed.

Although she didn’t yell it out at every available moment anymore, Dinky was still unwilling to deny her old games of history revisionism. Whether it was a technique necessary to block out childhood abuse or something that had become so ingrained in her that she didn’t know how to act otherwise, Clastic Strain didn’t know. Combined with the lingering stigma of her unworldly aging, it was difficult for anyone to take her seriously, or see her as anything more than an unsociable loon. Dinky’s tendency for voracious insults didn’t help.

If Dinky ever left Ponyville, and started fresh somewhere where no one knew her, Clastic Strain was sure that she could become almost anything she wanted. Her reasons for staying in the backwater town were as obvious as they were touching; her mother needed her. Although she was barely in her fifties, due to the abuse, Derpy had the bearings of a much older mare; and wouldn’t leave the town she’d called home for most of her life. Dinky wouldn’t abandon her mother, and so she forsook a world of opportunity to work part time as a waitress at Sugarcube Corner and take care of her. A seven bit tip for delivering a muffin wasn’t coercion, it was necessary; and Clastic Strain was glad to do it.

“So where do we start?”

“What?” Clastic Strain looked up; Dinky was standing over him, her waitress apron gone, her cheeky grin remained. Clastic Strain checked the clock, eight minutes had passed.

Clastic Strain slid to the next chair, and passed Dinky one assignment sheet at random; “A twelve thousand word essay on the on the potential dangers of miscalculated teleportation.” she read. “Seems easy enough; a picture is worth a thousand words, draw her a comic slide; include lots of blood.”

“She’d fail me.”

“Then paint it.”

“This is serious.”

“Alright, alright.” Dinky added a dash of practical application to her usual madness, transforming it into a fresh batch of creative genius which she shared with Clastic Strain, quickly suggesting several ways teleportation’s could backfire which… not many people would think of.

Over the next three hours, the two of them worked their way through a rough draft of a promising essay, two spells, a chapter of advanced mathematics, (though Dinky scoffed at that title) and seven milkshakes. Tasks which had seemed daunting just a few hours ago suddenly seemed easy, and the simplicity with which Dinky explained complicated spells almost seemed magic in itself.

If they kept working at this rate, there was a very good chance Clastic Strain could fit in all of the number one activities, and maybe even a few of the twos; he might even get eight hours sleep that night. Clastic Strain started to wonder how Dinky would react if he offered her twice what she was making at Sugarcube Corner, to be his tutor for the next few weeks… except for one subject.

Right after Dinky’s arrival; Clastic Strain wished he’d left Professor Sparkle’s latest history book back at the farmhouse. Dinky had suggested moving onto history after finishing the essay, and each spell, but Clastic Strain always managed to steer in a different direction. The moment he finished the last math problem however, Dinky slammed the math book down and snatched up the history book and began flicking through it, like a judgmental lion waiting to devour.

“Right, right, wrong, almost right, bad artist reproduction, wrong-” there was no way she was actually reading that fast; she wasn't spending more than three seconds per page. “Right, wrong, wrong, almost right,” Clastic Strain decided to let her have this, after all they were due for a break and this seemed her chosen game; “Right, wrong, wrong, right;” Dinky picked up a pen and scribbled violently in Clastic Strain mint condition book.

“NO!” Clastic Strain shouted, snatching the book away from her before she could do any more damage. “You can’t do that!”

“I just did.”

Clastic Strain looked in his book hoping the damage wouldn’t be too bad; to his horror Dinky had vandalized the chapter on Starswirl The Bearded, crossing out two hundred and eleven for the number of spells he had created and written thirty-eight. “If Sparkle sees this she’ll-”

“Starswirl wasn’t nearly as smart as Twilight cracks him up to be; he mostly took credit for other wizard’s works, especially Clover the Cleaver, now there was a real wizard; beautiful cellist, did you know that?”

Clastic Strain glared at Dinky, forcing himself to remember how much help she’d just been. “Alright… so Clover invented the time spells instead of Starswirl?”

“No; those were taught to him by a family of time travelers from the future.”

“So what am I meant to say on my exam? Starswirl was a fraud? Professor Sparkle would fail me.”

“Maybe; but at least you’ve been right.”

“…Let’s move on,”

Dinky reached for Professor Sparkle’s history book again but Clastic Strain pulled it away. “Promise you’re not to write in it again.”

Dinky sighed, “Fine.”

“Promise?”

“Yea alright I promise,” she quipped, snatching the book back from him again and returning to her earlier monotone as judged each page before taking the time to read it, , “Right, right, wrong, right, almost right, wrong, wrong, completely wrong!" Dinky tore two pages straight out from the book, shredding them with her magic and drawing a frantic ‘eep’ from Clastic Strain

“You- you promised-”

“That I wouldn’t write in your book and I didn’t.”

“But-”

“It wasn’t right! The battle of Skyfall never happened.”

Clastic Strain glared at her, “There’s a bucking holiday for it.”

“That doesn't mean that it happened!”

Now Dinky had crossed over the line. Joking about an old wizard was one thing, dishonoring those who had sacrificed their lives to protect Equestria was another. “Each year for as long as I can remember my parents have made me go to the Skyfall parade.”

“Yes I imagine they would.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Why do you ask?”

“What?”

“Do you actually care about whether or not what you say is true, or do you just want to say whatever Twilight wants you to say in order to get the grade you want?”

“… Can I have my book back... please?”

Dinky sighed, grabbed the corner of his tunic in her magic, pulled it upwards and paused. Clastic Strain tried to bat his wing down to pull his tunic back, but before he could, Dinky had slipped his book back into his saddlebag and then backed off. Clastic Strain withered at her, “What?” asked Dinky, “If the book was on the table I’d be tempted to correct it some more, I was putting it out of harm’s way.”

“You did that just so you could check whether or not I had my cutie-mark yet, didn’t you?”

Dinky put her elbow on the table, leaned her hoof on her cheek, and spoke much more loudly than was necessary; “Why shouldn’t I? You stare at my ass all the time.”

“That… that’s not…” Clastic Strain stammered, turning violet red.

“You’re looking at it right now.”

That was only because he was still trying to figure out what her cutie-mark meant! Clastic Strain had known Dinky most of his life, and had tried for years to come up with a reasonable guess as to what it meant as was still no closer to an answer! It looked like Dinky; almost, maybe it was another pony, then again, it could have been anything!

On Dinky’s flank was what looked like a pony made from a patchwork quilt, with every inch of its coat and mane a different color with no discernible pattern. It looked like it could have been an alicorn, but from certain angles the horn looked like an antler, and the wing might just be an illusion from the changing colors of the coat, which were just as likely to have been made of scales as feathers.

There were four legs with what looked like hooves, but if he looked for them, Clastic Strain could just as easily see paws, talons or cloven hooves. He had no idea whether the creature was male or female, and the face seemed to by expressing every conceivable emotion at once!

“Hey!” Scolded Dinky; pushing his chin up so he was meeting her at eye level, “Face is up here.” Sugarcube Corners doors swayed open as someone came in; “I wonder who that could be?” asked Dinky, turning around and hopping up to stand on her chair so she could see the door, placing her flank exactly where her face had been a moment ago.

Clastic Strain was sure that her cutie-mark had changed in the moment since he’d last saw it, but didn’t know how. It was possible that her cutie-mark was different on her left and right sides, but he couldn’t be certain, he never was; the creature could just as easily have been Discord as it was Dinky.

Dinky leaned forwards, apparently trying to talk to some people at the table behind them, giving her hips a small shake; now her cutie-mark changed again, he was positive. The eye of the creature, which seemed to be every color simultaneously, had stopped looking everywhere at once and was now focusing directly on him.

Clastic Strain moved to the side, but the cutie-beast’s gaze followed him. Now there was absolutely no question that Dinky’s cutie-mark had changed, Clastic Strain leaned far to the left and then the entire creature turned its head. It wasn’t facing towards Dinky’s shoulder anymore, it was standing as if for a frontal portrait, smiling at him, grinning at him… and then it winked at him.

“OK, break’s over.” Dinky pivoted around again, briefly brushing Clastic Strain’s muzzle with her tail and let herself fall back into her chair, munching on a few hayfries she had taken from the next table, probably without permission. “How about we skip spells thirty one through thirty four and go straight to thirty-five. I want to see if you can put mustaches on things.”

“Dinky.”

She turned to face him, batting her eyelashes slightly, though that too could be his imagination, “Yes?”

“What does you’re cutie-mark mean?”

Dinky looked at him like she was confused for a moment, she looked at him, then down to her cutie-beast and then up to him again; “…I thought you knew.”

“Know? How could I know?”

“Well you’ve known me for seventeen years. If you couldn’t tell from the picture, why did you wait so long to ask me?”

“I… I didn’t…”

“Yes?” asked Dinky, leaning closer.

Clastic Strain swallowed, checked for other people listening and then said very quietly, “I didn’t want to make you think about any of the ways your father abus-”

Several hard objects suddenly collided with Clastic Strain’s face. The first, he was fairly certain, was Dinky’s hoof, the second felt like the edge of the table and the third was probably the floor, based on the fact that that was where he was now lying, with Dinky standing over him, red faced with her teeth barred.

“Don’t you ever talk about my father that way again!”

“But-”

“EVER!”

Dinky raised her hoof to hit him again, Clastic Strain tried to block, but his head was pounding and missed. Dinky’s hoof pummeled his ear into the floor and ground it several times for good measure. Dinky then teleported to turn around and began trotting angrily towards the door, “Figure out your own stupid homework!”