Chapter 1: Drawing Horses
The city loomed in the distance, covered by a veil of smog that did not reach the hilltop. In the opposite direction, the old ugly concrete buildings of the old communal farm, which had currently become a riding school, tainted the landscape of hills covered by forests, farmland, meadows and scarce farmhouses.
I walked off the dirt road and sat in the grass by the fence of two horizontal rusted pipes around the pasture. I pulled my sketchbook and pencil box out of my backpack.
Behind the fence, in the pasture with grass grazed nearly to extinction, the dozen or so mares nibbled on the last straws, giving me the opportunity to draw them. Skinny and worn as they were, they were still beautiful to me, and this place was just three bus stops and a short walk from where I lived, so I could visit them on my way back from work, to train my meager art skills and watch the beautiful creatures.
Unfortunately, with a narrow-specialization, dead-end job, living in this god-forsaken corrupt Eastern Bloc country, I couldn't do the least about their fate. Poland. The country of heroes during wartime, the country of corruption and squabbles during peace. The riding school was one of Tresher’s many businesses, and he was a part of the ruling “clique”. Influential, he had many friends in positions of power... During a visit from an animal rights organization, I once saw Tresher laughing with the inspectors, who were apparently his good pals.
And I couldn't even emigrate yet. I had an old mother to provide for and help occasionally - and she refused to move from her town eighty kilometers away... All I could was to draw the horses and grit my teeth.
Among the common chestnut and bay furs, I spotted something new. White. An Arabian mare, slightly shorter than the other horses. Dirty, skinny, long unkempt mane with more dark muddy spots than white, and her stance... lost, helpless. She stood a short distance from the group, still a stranger, likely a new purchase. I decided to pick her as the subject of my sketch and got to outlining the basic shapes.
As she kept walking, I spotted two large, round, orange blotches on her hindquarters, symmetrically on both sides of her rump, peeking out from under the caked mud. I pondered how she had gotten them. Probably someone had spilled something in the stall and she had lain in it, I thought.
She walked up to the group of the horses and nickered quietly. I saw the lead mare stepping up to her heavily, chasing her away. She'd have to submit, approach with her head low, step back – only then would she be allowed into the herd. But for now, she just turned tail and walked away, hanging her head low, away from the group.
You could easily judge the conditions of a stable by the behavior of the horses. In happy stables, the horses were welcoming, trusting and friendly. They would still play their little mind games of establishing hierarchy, but that was all done in good spirits, competitive but not hostile. Here though, there was open malice, mistrust, fatigue, frustration. The ache of long workdays under inexperienced riders, walking the same circle for hours at a time, this took its toll on the psyche of these horses, and the position in the herd often meant survival or death. First share of hay scattered in the paddock. First share of snacks brought by children. Being last in line to the truck to slaughterhouse.
I wondered how long until the new mare became as jaded and hostile as the others.
I changed some lines in my sketch, trying to capture the downcast outcast expression.
The mare stood with her head low for a while, then apparently she noticed me and began walking in my direction. She walked up to the fence and nickered softly. I put the sketchbook aside and stood up, walking up to her. I gently touched her slim nose, then I brushed her long, tangled mane with my fingers.
She closed her eyes for a moment, then she opened them and looked me in the eyes.
Her gaze made me catch my breath. She knew. She knew her fate, and she knew I could do nothing about it, and still she asked me, begged me to help.
I rested my face against her nose, pulling her head gently with my hand. I breathed her breath.
The breath of a horse is its true name. The breath of each horse has a unique scent, always different, always special. Herbs of a sunny meadow. Dry desert sand. A stale, slow midsummer river. Shade of an old spruce forest. Prickly deep frost of a sunny winter day. Fresh soil after rain. Sweet fruit of a shady orchard. Cold dust of a dry tomb. These are the true names of horses. Each unique, each special, a name that can't be faked, can't be passed, can't be written down.
Vanilla. The sweet, delicious scent of vanilla. That was what I felt in the breath of this mare. I couldn't hold back a chuckle. How on Earth did a horse get such a scent for their breath?
I put my hand on her neck, and she rested her chin on my shoulder. She pulled me close and held tightly. “Neck-hug”, the ancient equine gesture of friendship. We stood like this for a minute or so, then she let go.
I took a step back, and sat down as she bent her neck to graze by the fence. I picked up my sketchbook and got to drawing her. And yet, somehow, that sadness was gone. She'd eye me from time to time, moving her ears, and I could tell she was smiling at me.
I kept drawing, and I couldn't fight the impression that she was posing for me, keeping roughly the same position and angle, her head turned towards me, approaching slowly, grazing. Then shortly she'd turn around, walk a distance away, turn around to return to the prior pose and resume her grazing.
Half an hour later, my sketch was done. Of course I got the initial proportions wrong, and the finish couldn't fix that, and as result, the picture was... worse than mediocre. I packed my pencils, then prepared to stand up and pack my sketchbook, when she rapidly turned around and walked up to the fence. She extended her head towards me and nickered quietly.
I walked up to her and put my hand on her nose, but she avoided it and extended her neck towards my sketchbook instead.
“What? It's not edible.”
She blew air loudly through her nose.
“Here.” I opened the sketchbook on the last picture and showed it to her. “Do you like it?”
She looked at the picture, then she snorted and shook her head rapidly.
“Hey, I'm just learning. Let me see you do any better!”
She turned around and pranced, lifting her legs high in an elegant piaff. Then she walked back up to the fence and, before I knew what was going on, grabbed the sketchbook with her teeth. She bolted back towards the pasture and put the sketchbook on the grass several meters away.
“Hey, give it back!”
She shook her head rapidly and nickered loudly.
I pushed between the lower and upper bar of the fence and stepped in to pick up my property. Seeing this, she picked up the sketchbook in her teeth again and pranced away, as if taunting me.
I knew better than to try to chase her. More than a little overweight, age slowly ticking towards 40, no physical condition to speak of, I stood no chance.
She walked in a wide circle back towards the fence, keeping her distance from me. She put the sketchbook on the grass – only now I noticed she would put it down gently instead of dropping it, and she used her nose to open it. Then – using her nose – she'd push a page, flipping it. She was looking at my older drawings.
I just stood there with my jaw hanging low, watching the mare leafing through my sketches. She'd pause, nicker with approval or shake her head. My heart was racing, pounding in my chest. That... that was unreal. A dream? A hallucination? I stared at my hands, making out the fine details on my fingers, making sure it was not a dream. A grin crept up my mouth. It’s really happening. It’s for real, a true mystery, like aliens or ghosts being real.
There was just that one little shade of doubt. Maybe her previous owner had taught her that trick. That would be one incredible trick to teach to a horse, but then... that was easy to test. My heart pounded with joy. I didn't believe this to be a trick, but just to make sure...
I ducked under the bar of the fence and went to my backpack. I extracted the pencil box, then after a moment of thinking I put it back in and pulled a sharpie from a side pocket. I walked up to the mare – she just spared me a friendly glance, lying on the grass with my sketchbook in front of her, with no intention of running away. I crossed back into the pasture and removed the cap from the sharpie.
“So you think you can do better? Well, let’s see.” I crouched by her, flipping the pages to a blank one. I held the sharpie to her. She looked at it, then she picked it up in her teeth. She leaned towards the paper and started drawing.
I just watched, mesmerized.
She finished, a smug grin on her mouth, the sharpie still in her teeth. I took it from her and replaced the cap.
“You are NOT better than me!” I exclaimed. “But you are one mysterious magical horse, and that is amazing.”
The gate at the far end of the pasture creaked. One of the stable hands was there. He spotted me and walked in my direction.
“Hey! This is a private property. You can't be here!” - the voice was tired and filled with anger.
I turned my gaze to the sketch, to the mare... I thought about protesting, about explaining. I looked at the mare, seeking advice.
She flipped the sketchbook closed with her nose, and gave me a soft nicker. I nodded. “See you tomorrow,” I muttered, picking the sketchbook.
“Alright, I'm leaving!” I shouted, then I walked to the fence and crossed to the outside. I turned back and watched as the mare trotted towards the gate.
I packed the sketchbook into my backpack, put it on my back, and headed away to the bus stop to return home. I was filled with warm fuzzies. A horse who could draw pictures! A sapient horse! Such things just didn't happen! I was in a magical adventure!
Then I heard an angry shout, the stable hand chasing some horse that didn't want to leave the pasture just yet. Cold anger filled me. The magical adventure had a villain.
* * *
I passed by the gate of the riding school, unable to shake off the impression that it lacked the sign "Arbeit Macht Frei" above. I walked along paddocks adjacent to the dirty, dull concrete barns, heading towards pastures on the hill. My attention was drawn to a sandy paddock on the side of one of the stables. Three girls, the instructors of the riding school, were talking – standing around the white mare.
She wore tack and a saddle. I recognized a hackamore in her mouth. It's a type of bridle that, in skilled hands, allows for superior communication between the rider and the mount. In less skilled hands... it's a cruel tool of torture for the horse.
“I'm telling you, you won't last ten seconds in the saddle.”
“Really? Then how comes she isn’t sausages yet?”
“She loves kids. She's gentle as a lamb when ridden by a small kid. She walks like a dressage horse, trot, gallop, changing leads, but only as long as there's a kid on her back. Try longeing her with an empty back and you'd be hard-pressed to find a worse slacker. And an adult on her back? Biting sand in ten seconds flat!”
“Oh yeah? Bet you twenty I will have her walking around the paddock like a well-oiled clock.” The trainer grinned and swished the crop she held in her hands, hitting it against the side of her boot. The mare laid her ears flat against her neck.
“Deal. Twenty and a round around the paddock without falling, please.” The two girls shook hands, and the third “cut”, lowering her hand onto the handshake in a chopping motion, sealing the bet.
“She just needs to know who's the boss,” she said, putting her boot in the stirrup. A second later, she was in the saddle. The mare stood with her head low. The girl kicked her flanks lightly. The mare bucked hard, throwing the girl a good meter up, but she held onto the saddle with one hand and pulled herself down, back into the saddle. She hit the mare with the crop and pulled the reins back hard – I winced at what that would do to the mare's mouth.
She hit the mare's rump with the crop again, lightly this time, pushing with her hips, to make her walk.
The mare took two steps, her head literally hanging on the taut reins, then she jumped again... but this time, not straight up like before. Instead, she literally flipped onto her back. The girl jumped from the saddle and evacuated in the nick of time before the mare smashed her under her weight.
Before the dust settled, the girl and the mare were both up, the girl jerking on the reins hard and raising her hand with the crop to hit.
The trainer who took the bet grabbed the raised hand.
The failed rider glared at her.
“My twenty, please.”
“Fine.” The angry girl reached to a pocket to pull her wallet, then she found the money, slapping the note into the extended hand. “I'll get her to behave if I'm to make her bleed,” she muttered, apparently preparing for another try.
I winced and thought fast. What to do? What to do? I couldn't allow her to torture the mare! But how? Attack? One fatty against three amazons? And I'd ruin any chance of being able to help more! Distract them? How?
Then I got the idea.
“Bet you twenty each I can do this!” I shouted.
The three turned to me. “And you'd be...” the failed rider asked.
“An easy twenty for you?”
The one that won the bet snorted. “Fine by me. Show us what you've got, rider.”
The sarcasm was not lost on me. I was the antithesis of a sportsman.
I dropped my backpack by the fence and ducked under the bar. I stumbled and nearly fell when I lifted my leg over the lower bar, arousing snickers. Still, I walked up to the three.
“The tack won't be needed,” I said.
They looked at each other, waiting for one to make a decision.
“She's about to be let into the pasture anyway, right? I'll save you some work removing it,” I said, trying to convince them.
Apparently that sold the idea. “It's your neck,” said the one who lost the bet.
I unbuckled the hackamore and pulled it from the mare's mouth. She smacked her mouth a little, probing the corners of her lips with her tongue, as I bundled the straps neatly.
I pulled the stirrups up, pulling their belts through them just right, then I reached for the girth. I knew how to handle that stuff – good ten years ago I'd tried horse riding. Then one of the horses just said “no” to my weight, and I decided to stop torturing them until I lost at least thirty kilograms. Then the thirty became thirty-five, then forty, and my stressful job just didn't let me ever reverse the trend.
I unbuckled the belts, then slid the saddle off the mare's back, letting the girth land over the top, and watchful not to let its buckles to hit my face.
“Where do I put it?” I asked.
“The tack room, just to the right, inside. And bring a halter back, the red one, first on the left.”
Not cutting me any slack. The saddle was heavy! Well, at least that was a little weight off the mare's back if she was to carry me.
I followed the directions, entering the stable, finding the musty tack room, and depositing the tack on respective hooks. A minute later I was back with the halter in hand, the three trainers watching me like vultures watch a dying antelope. “Hold this.” I handed the halter to the one who “cut” the bet between the two. She accepted it, somewhat surprised.
“Come,” I gestured to the mare, motioning her to follow. She did so, without protests, walking up to the fence. With no small effort, I climbed the lower bar, then I threw my leg over the mare's back and finally settled near her withers. She grunted quietly under my weight.
“All right, now you can throw me off.”
She turned her head to me, a question in her eye.
Oh, well, she wouldn't? Let us try it. I pushed with my loins, motioning her to start walking. She turned her head back to me instead. Was that incredulity?
She gave out a quiet whicker, turned her head away and started walking. I could feel her firm muscles playing under my thighs. Step by step she walked along the fence; when she reached the corner, she turned and kept walking along the long side of the paddock. I brushed her shoulder with my hand gently. She just made her skin shudder as if a fly sat there, then she soldiered along, bringing me towards the opposite corner slowly.
I turned my head towards the three trainers. They conversed in hushed voices, observing me.
We reached the corner, and the mare turned along the third side of the paddock. Several steps more and we were halfway through.
“Just finish the round. We're halfway through.”
The mare approached the wall of the stable and made a gentle turn without any prompting from me. Step by step, she approached the three harpies. I met their stares, a mix of worry (about losing), curiosity and amusement at my unimpressive posture and snail pace.
We had just passed the three when the mare stopped. She turned her head to me, and there was seriousness in her gaze.
Then suddenly I was up in the air. I watched the white back dashing from between my legs, a second of weightlessness, and then I landed on the ground below, standing perfectly straight on my legs. Before I shook my confusion off, the mare made a short circle and approached me.
I turned around to the sound of loud laughter. The three trainers couldn't hold back, crouching and giving each other high five. I looked to the mare. She gave me a half-amused look, and finally I couldn't hold back either. Laughing loudly, I dug in my pocket for my wallet. “Sorry, ladies,” I said through the chuckles, handing them two notes, “I've only got a ten and a fifty. I hope you can split it between you?”
The one who won the bet took the cash from my hand. “Sure, pleasure doing business with you. Will you please lead the mare to the pasture? And put the halter on her.” She took the halter off her friend's hands and handed it to me.
“Sure,” I said. I looked at the mare and gestured towards the pasture. The three trainers busied themselves trying to split the amount into three equal parts using what they had in their wallets, while I walked towards the gate in the fence. As I busied myself with the latch, I heard the sound of hooves approaching.
I turned around.
The mare held my backpack in her teeth.
* * *
She was resting her neck on my shoulder while I was unzipping the backpack. I pulled the tablet out.
“It's a cheap piece of crap with a resistive screen, but thanks to that you can use anything as a stylus.” I pulled out an unsharpened pencil and stuck it in the mare's mouth, leaving the eraser end outside. She twisted her head a little – I couldn't see her face at this angle, to read her expression, but I could guess it well enough. I took the pencil from her mouth and pressed the eraser to the “Drawing” icon. The black area with a set of icons on top filled the screen. I made a squiggly line with the eraser, and a white trail appeared on the canvas. “Press here to save and start a new picture.” I touched the icon on top. The squiggly line zoomed out into a small box and slid out of the screen, leaving a blank canvas. I stuck the pencil into the mare's mouth again.
“I'm sorry, but I have no clue what that means. Either I don't know that alphabet, or your writing is abysmally bad. Is that an 'ETO' or something like that?”
The mare gave out a snort and picked 'wipe'. This time she drew slowly, making sure to leave the writing readable, filling the screen with the unknown characters. She underlined the first character, then she dropped the pencil. Something akin to cough escaped her throat.
I turned to her. I saw the effort twisting her face, a throaty 'khh' escaping her mouth, She nearly crouched with effort. Then she gave up, standing straight, her head low in defeat.
I looked at the rows of characters. I walked up to her, lifted her head with my hand, and planted a kiss on her silky nose. Then I raised the tablet, pressed the save&wipe icon, and started filling it with the latin alphabet. She observed me, carefully. I pointed at the first letter, then uttered it. 'A'.
The mare picked the pencil off my hand, and using the free space below replicated the letter.
'B'. I pointed at the second letter.
'B' was painstakingly drawn on the screen.
'C' I read the third letter.
The mare copied it down.
This time I moved my finger along the row, picking out a 'K'. I said the name. The mare put down the symbol.
I took the pencil and rearranged the letters into 'BACK'. “Back,” I said. I tapped my back with my hand, then I brushed the back of the mare. I repeated the word a few times, while pointing. Yep, English. Much easier to learn and teach than Polish, and I had some ideas how to help her already...
She stepped up to me, put her head on my shoulder and pulled me close with her chin. Then I felt her front hoof around my back, pulling me close, hugging me tightly. I returned the hug with my both hands.
* * *
`
She whinnied loudly, galloping to me from the other end of the pasture, as soon as I appeared on the dirt road. I couldn't hold back my laughter as I saw her face so full of wonder and joy, waiting to see what I'd brought this time.
I walked with her towards the far end of the pasture, away from the prying eyes of the people at the riding school, me on one side of the fence, her on the other.
I unzipped the backpack and pulled the tablet out, switching it on, as it always took a while to start up. Then I followed with a colorful, small book with picture of a ship on the sea with funny animals on deck. A crocodile in a captain's garb held a looking glass, while a pig, a rat and a cat, all in sailors' clothes, peered over the side of the ship.
The mare picked out a pencil from my backpack and lay by the fence, placing the tablet over her front legs. Meanwhile, I flipped the first few initial pages to get to the content proper, and began reading out loud, slowly.
“'R', roared the captain, 'R's not enough. We need other letters to help make us through.”
I pointed to the open maw of the crocodile, suggesting the loud voice. “Roar”, I said. “Rrrr,” I tried emulating roaring.
The mare copied the four letters into the canvas of the drawing app (apparently she had launched it herself). Then she raised her head and I heard the most terrifying, deafening, guttural whinny-neigh-squeal. It made me jump to my legs and skip away from her. There was want for murder in that voice. The other mares in the pasture, spooked, galloped away.
Gasping hard, I stared at her, while she calmly picked the pencil up, and circled the word 'roar' on the tablet.
“Phew.” I rubbed my head and calmed my throbbing heart. I had read that horses – specifically, enraged stallions – could roar, but to witness it live? To find myself on the receiving end?
I sat down by the mare. I couldn't help the impression that she was very amused.
I picked the next word. 'Captain'. I flipped to the cover, pointing at the crocodile. “Captain,” I said. “Sailors.” I pointed at the four other animals. She copied the word to the tablet, and I was spelling each letter as she was drawing it.
Then she reached with her neck towards the book. The eraser tip landed on the word 'the'.
I winced and scratched my head.
* * *
I looked at the column of numbers, as she finished dividing 3563 by 7896 on the tablet. She took maybe half an hour to get from learning digits to written multiplication. I was sure it would take an intelligent man at least a day to learn a foreign numerical system from scratch, and here she was learning multiplication in matter of minutes.
“So, how about you teach me something?”
She looked at me quizzically.
I picked the tablet up and accessed the list of saved images. I scrolled to the second ever drawn, her odd writing. I showed her the image.
She got to drawing.
Fifteen minutes later, I had my basic clue. It was an octal system, with the least-significant digit on the left, a shorthand notation for a trailing (or leading, in the left-to-right growth case) row of n zeros, the symbols composed in such a way that you could increment by one through adding a line to the symbol (with an alternate, more complex symbol for 'zero' which was achieved through slashing the '7' symbol), extra notation for carrying in each digit symbol, and, most confusingly, the '-' and '+' meaning multiplication and division respectively. Luckily, the 'equals' sign was still the same.
I tried adding two three-digit numbers in the new system. After four mistakes I gave up and returned the tablet to the mare.
Did she just ask me for the notation for exponents? Oh well, I obliged. I wrote down the roots, explained the notation with braces and the natural order of operations, then I proceeded to logarithms, the Euler Constant e...
The mare wrote down another piece, a whole alternate notation based on an implied Euler Constant. I held my head with my hand trying to absorb the elegant approach; it was much neater than our superscript in tiny font.
I pointed to her, making a wide gesture with my hands, then to myself, showing a tiny distance between my fingers. She tilted her head quizzically. I thought again. Maybe they don't associate size with quality?
“You – captain.” I pointed at her. “Me – sailor.” I pointed at myself.
She snorted and bumped my knee with her leg.
Then she scribbled a simple graph on the tablet. I recognized a tangent to a curve and the approximation with a segment.
She demanded I show her calculus.
* * *
I brought her a pictorial dictionary and an English for Foreigners textbook, and we were working through them at an impressive speed. She wasn't entirely infallible, sometimes forgetting the exact spelling of a given word, or messing up the grammar, but by all accounts she was a genius. In a matter of a couple of hours, we’d worked through a year's worth of school material, she’d understood most of what I said providing I spoke slowly and clearly, and she could write complete sentences. We finished the English handbook, and she sped through the large pictorial dictionary, learning each word fast. The stable hand must have forgotten to fetch the horses from the pasture, and it was getting dark as we finished with the dictionary.
Then, using the newly-acquired communication ability, I asked her to tell her story.
Her name was Celestia, and she was a princess. She came from a land called Equestria, and she wanted to return home to her sister Luna. She got here through a trapped magical mirror, brought as a gift to her by a treacherous enemy pretending to seek peace. She landed in a forest just a kilometer or so away, got bitten by a stray dog, then, hurting, hungry and lost, she stumbled out of the forest. She had tried to communicate with the feral horses when a stable hand found her, brought her to the riding school, fed her and tended to her wound. She stayed because she realized she'd need to learn more about this world first, and at least she would receive food here while she observed. And then she understood that this world was no place for 'stray' horses and just running away wouldn't end well. She worked for her food, while observing, learning, and looking for an opportunity... for a friend.
And then she met me.
* * *
The words were written in badly mangled Polish
“KRYTYE.”
“KLACH ROSPWODOVA.”
“MEANS?”
I felt sweat rising on my neck, as she showed the writing to me.
“Breeding. Broodmare. You won't know these words yet.”
I scribbled stick-figures of two horses mating. Then a smaller one next to them. A dollar sign, two arrows between the small one and the sign.
She examined the scribble sceptically, then she snorted, dismissing the idea.
I took the tablet again, and sketched the stick-figure horse again, but this time I added ropes binding the legs, the tail, bridle bound to a post. I began sketching the stallion, when her hoof landed on my knee.
She wasn't dismissive this time. She was angry, scared. She reached for the tablet, and I put it in front of her, letting her use it.
“I MUST RUN”
The pencil cracked in her teeth. She held her ears flat on her neck, her nostrils extended in a fast breath. She corrected her grip on the remains of the pencil.
“Where to?”
“YOU. HELP?”
“Dear god.” I put my face in my palm. “I have no room for a horse. I have no clue where to hide you. And the owner of the stable knows the cops, they will be looking for you.”
She pleaded with her gaze.
“This is insane. Look, I... let me think.”
She nodded curtly.
I thought of my place. The small flat I rented in the shallow basement of the tenement house would barely fit her. The obvious advantages were the separate entrance from the backyard side and the fact that I lived alone, with next to no visitors. Most of my neighbors were cool; if they found out, they'd think I was crazy, but they wouldn't cause me much trouble. The landlord was my good friend, administering the house on behalf of his parents. If he found out, he wouldn't be happy, but he wouldn't throw a fit either and would help me in moving Celestia somewhere instead of outright throwing me out. Worse would be his aunt, who lived next door to him. She'd scream bloody murder and call every kind of service and office to get me thrown out if she found out.
How would I feed Celestia? I could smuggle a small square hay bale in a rucksack. If I folded the table, there would be enough room for her to lie down in the middle of the room. I'd be able to close the drapes on the window so that nobody could peer inside from the backyard. This would work. It wouldn't work well, and there were a bunch of things that could go wrong, but it would buy us time to think of something better.
“Can you escape from here by yourself, or will you need me to sneak in, try to unlock the door or something like that?”
“EASY. I TRIED.”
“Fine. Try to get to my place in the dead of the night.” I met her asking glance. She still didn't know many idioms. “Late. At night. Empty streets.”
She nodded.
I took my smartphone and loaded up Google Maps. I began explaining the route to my place. She protested, and pointed towards other sections of the map, in the opposite direction.
“I have no clue how to hide you there.”
“YOUR PLACE.
POLICE DOGS.
LONG WAY”
“Oh, right! Good thinking!”
I suggested the grove she had come from, then going down to a brook, wading for quite a bit, getting out onto a road on the other side, a bridge across the brook, then some abandoned allotments, a park, and finally the street leading to my place.
She pointed a seemingly better route which would lead a shorter way between houses.
“Nope. Modern houses, cameras everywhere.”
She looked at me with a question.
I switched the camera in the phone on and took a photo of her. I turned the screen to her. “Photo”, I pointed. “Camera,” I pointed at the little window on the other side of the phone. “Recording strangers.”
She nodded, pointing to the route I had proposed.
I zoomed in onto the house. “Here, open the backyard gate, I'll leave it unlocked. Here's the door. I'll be waiting.”
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This. This is really cool.
I could have gone to bed... but I think I'll keep reading. Very entrancing.
As an owner of horses (and Cowboy to boot as evidenced by my handle) I feel it necessary to point out that hackamores are a much more humane option for an "untested" horse than anything else. Including spade bits and curb bits. The reason it is better for the horse and rider to have a hackamore than the above mentioned bits is the fact that you don't have to put your fingers in a green horse's mouth (it would most likely bite you and that hurts a lot[experience]) and they are designed to ease a horse into the whole "being under someone else's control" thing.
TL:DR maybe consider a different form of control.
Other than that little niggly nitpick, very well done
Question: is this English or Western style riding? Because you seem to be using a mixture of both (what with the mention of the heavy saddle and all)
EDIT: just read the A/N
This is intriguing.
OH MY CELESTIA. .
THIS IS A NEW MY LITTLE DASHIE. .
I realized it during his second day. ..
Omfg this is gonna be good.
I'm going to say this now: if this story doesnt get to the feature box and earn at least 500 likes, I'm going to flip a lid!
Really want to imagine that you work at an insane asylum and just found all these scribblings from someone that needed to be moved into a padded room and decided to make a story out of it. Looks like I'll be late for work...
I am finding this a vary fresh and good story a new approach to telling a story from the princess eye's as she is trapped.
good job.
Harts Fire
This is awesome!!!
I'm really digging this. Also communicative languages through maths seems to be an awesome trope :D
It's 10:40 p.m. right now where I live. I have to be at work tomorrow at 8:00 a.m.
Onto the second chapter!
Got to agree with the first comment. And the story seems planned out very well.
10 million points to this story!
hopefully this will come into play later.
My favorite part so far has been the numeric system. If my interpretation is correct. From left to right it's 0,1,2,3,4,5,6,7,0,8, 64 or 8 times 2, and finally 8 to the power of 4 or 8 times 8 times 8 times 8.
This is not enough information to understand how to operate this system completely but it's a good start. Also there is no need to go into further details what was shown it's already enough to give this story a new dimension, a whole different level depth.
~Leonzilla
Oddly enough, Celestia being treated as a beast of burden is one of the least depressing parts of this chapter.
I lived in Poland for a year a while ago, 2006. I learned enough Polish to order dinner, particularly for that black currant nectar. FUCK, THAT SHIT IS GODDAMNED DELICIOUS. Tymbark was my brand. (for reference, I'm a mix of Hispanic, Native American, and a bunch of other things, but mostly American by culture)
6255070
If this is how Poland is on a regular basis, I root for anarchy. Kill all the corrupt government jerks! And their families, to the n'th generation!
Ye might think a Pirate's favorite letter of the alphabet is 'R', but ye'd be wrong. Their firsl love always has to be the 'C'.
Wow that sounds strange - I feel sorry for Celestia, but she's learning quick, Soon she should be out of that place.
I really like this so far. Keep up the good work! This is a good fic!
I love this concept. It's something new and interesting—and in Poland of all places.
Poor Celestia, I hope she gets home soon. I've ridden horses for years and I know first-hand how bad some stables can be when the owner doesn't care for the horses or teaches riders to be cruel.
Don't you just hate it when a horse expects you to do calculus?
I was put off by this story, at least at first...
Now?
I can't stop reading it. Interesting take on 'pony on earth' stories. And makes better sense than the EG stories.
Not that most magic ever makes sense. Which is stupid, IMO.
Looks like none of us will be getting any sleep tonight! Or... for a while, at least.
Holy Originality, Batman! Intriguing and very well written. Really enjoying it so far.
6256796
Really interesting, and a great start. A shame the pictures don't work anymore.
7065951
Imgur decided to change the links. Should be fixed now; if it isn't, let me know.
7066172
Images still don't work
7100090
Imgur seems to have taken a hating to hotlinking.
Try now?
Immediately hooked.
Just as good the second time around.
I switched the camera in the phone on and took a photo of her. I turned the screen to her. “Photo”, I pointed. “Camera,” I pointed at the little window on the other side of the phone. “Recording strangers.”
in Equestria where that came celestia the photo finish does not exist right?
7294959
It exists, but it's named differently. Celestia just doesn't know the english word.
Fantastic originality!
It's certainly gotten my attention not only that the writing itself is sucking me in the drawings themselves are a nice touch.
You are the first author to get the right use of the word sapient in their story!!!! I'm so happy about this.
7294959
They don't have video cameras in Equestira.
Wait, Celestia doesn't know what recording means? Didn't Twilight use a spell to record the actions of Coloratura's manager?
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She knows the concept, not the English word for it though.