//------------------------------// // The Countess and Her Inspiration // Story: Dame Trixie and the Countess of Wyrd // by Impossible Numbers //------------------------------// There were farmers out in the fields, and Trixie and her posse traipsed between the hedgerows separating the carrots from the green beans. Farmers pruned the fields or trimmed the hedgerows with their shears. Farmers watered the furrows along the dirt, making the leaves shake under the downpour. Farmers flushed out the critters – mostly rabbits and crows – hiding among the crop and shooed them away. Farmers, in short, did farmery things, which was about as much as Trixie cared to notice. She glanced up. The pegasus teams had shifted the overcast sky, and under the blinding blue and the way the greenery shone, it wasn’t much of an improvement. She could feel her back melting under the cloak, and her pointed wizard’s hat was drooping over one eye. Even the mystic sigils on them were turning crispy. Up ahead by a pony’s length, Rara seemed totally unaffected. Then again, her hair had already been a sleek mess under the straw hat, so it was hard to tell. There were no sweat patches on her green frock, though. While Rara prattled on about this, that, and the other genre, and Mister Heads brought up the rear silently, Trixie scribbled on the notepad hovering before her. Occasionally, she stared up at the apple and orange trees on the horizon and tried not to yawn. Rara was prattling to the old stallion from the show, who’d fallen into step alongside her. She’d found him outside the tavern, and he’d been so busy not believing his luck that he had now, apparently, become part of the group. Trixie hadn’t paid much attention. He’d given his name as Wheezy, and then she’d lost interest and whipped out the notepad. Her mind was buzzing with sequins and light filters and how to make a piano score sound “mystical”. There was no room in there for “I remember when I was a lad…” or, worse, “Why, back in my day…” They were only out and about in the first place for “inspiration”, or so she understood it. Putting on a show was second nature to Trixie, but singing was new. Magicians had their hooves full just making sure the ponies at the back could hear them, and she had no intention of adding such complications as “being deaf-tone” to the deal. Perhaps this was how singers usually started. Inspiration, she thought. Pur-lease. We’re on farmland. They sow seeds, grow food, and tidy up afterwards. The only thing we’re gonna get out of a farm is lunch. “Let’s take a walk in the country,” she says. “We’ll see something and have this nailed before lunch,” she says. Well, the sun’s going down, and I’m sure as heck not eating lunch here. Even if they offer those carrots. Those who like vegetables shouldn’t see what they’re grown in. Trixie grimaced and tried to wipe her hoof on her chest. Soil and dust all over the place! Yeuch! She’d hoped walking on the grassy patches would’ve helped her to avoid it. She’d also hoped, after the first half an hour, that there’d be some statue or some story they could pick up and run with. But it was an hour down a road that frankly looked the same every step of the way. There must be better ways to waste one’s time. No mysterious craftwork, no art, no nothing, unless you were a fan of pastoral idyll. Nice in its own way, Trixie thought, struggling not to grimace, but it’s not a story. It’s just a thing ponies do. It’d be like singing about brushing your teeth. She was starting to wonder if they should just hang the “no repeat” rule and do “Filly Fall” again. This was less out of a sense of pragmatic showmareship and more because her stomach was mugging her brain for menaces money. One skipped meal was one too many. Besides, it reminded her too much of the uncomfortable times, not too long ago, when she’d had no choice but to skip the odd meal. Her eyes drifted to the green beans. At least they grew out of reach of the dirt, held up by the planted sticks that she presumed guided their growth. Either that, or some plants were too dumb on their own to figure out which way was up. Reluctantly, her starved mind began picking scraps out of the conversation ahead. “Oh look! Magpies,” said Rara. “Those black-and-white patterns would make a snazzy design, don’t you think?” There were indeed three magpies. They were sitting on the top of the hedge to their left, blinking and twitching after the walkers. Wheezy stuck his chin out. “You wanna steer clear of them foul beasties,” he said in his wheezy voice, and then he broke off and began a hacking cough that rolled through the conversation like a boulder down a hill. “Them’s nothin’ but thieves and spies. Evil spirits and demons use ‘em as familiars.” He didn’t stop glaring at the birds until the group had passed well by, and then he shook himself so viciously that his jowls flapped. “Wrote a book about it once,” he went on, stopping to clear his throat of an industrial-sized blockage. “Wrote lots of books about all kinds of things. Only thing keeps a magpie away is rusty horseshoes. It’s the iron. Repels evil, iron does. Wrote a book about it once…” He chewed over his next words, and then suppressed a cough with a noise like a backfiring car. Trixie hummed under her breath, but the few drops of inspiration evaporated under the heat. Magpies… they’re demonic spies… iron hurts their beady little eyes… “This is a joke,” she whispered. Rara glanced back while the old stallion rambled on. Her ears were drooping. Obviously, she was having about as much luck as Trixie was, and from the pleading look in her eyes, wasn’t getting what she wanted out of the ramble either. I’ll bite, Trixie thought. Aloud, she said, “So… Weasel, wasn’t it?” “Wheezy,” snapped Wheezy without looking around. His shoulders stiffened. “You’ve written a lot of books. What were they about?” Wheezy exploded into a hacking cough, and once it had passed, he said, “Oh, all sorts of things. Carrot varieties and how to cultivate ‘em. Bean varieties and how to cultivate ‘em. Where to get the best clover. Uh… Clover varieties and how to cultivate ‘em.” Trixie growled and mentally dropped out of the conversation. “Any stories?” Rara tried. “Like the Filly Fall? That kind of thing?” “Oh, that’s what you meant! I wrote loads,” he said. “I’m fascinated by folklore. Around here, we keep alive all kinds of legends and tales from way back when. Here, I’ll show you something special in a minute. Just a little further ahead.” Trixie allowed her gaze to wander back to the fields, but now they were leaving the green beans behind, and the edge of a patch of birch woodland was coming up. Crouched at the roots of one of the bleached trees was a pony wearing a grey shawl and a brown tunic, the face hidden behind a white bonnet. The pony was scraping at the soil. As Trixie watched, another two ponies in the same dress stepped out from behind the white trunks and trundled over to the first. They had woven baskets on their backs. “What’re they doing?” Rara said, nodding towards them. “Hm?” Wheezy followed her gaze. “Oh, them. The shorter two are grandchildren. That,” he said in hushed tones, “is someone special. That’s the Cunning Mare. Quick, look away. Pretend you haven’t seen her.” Rara obeyed him at once. “Is she shy? Or is it rude to stare? I’m not familiar with country customs.” “It’s just common respect. Everyone gives the Cunning Mare a wide berth around here. She can do all kinds of things: cast protective spells, mix up special potions, see into the future, and…” here, he leaned forwards and spoke in a conspiratorial whisper, “they say she can fly, even though she ain’t a pegasus pony and she ain’t got no wings!” “She’s a witch,” said Trixie irritably. “We get it. Woo.” She almost walked into Wheezy’s jaundiced glare. The old stallion shuddered, either through outrage or through an attempt to pre-empt the wheezing cough. “She ain’t a witch. Witches are evil and wicked and malicious and cruel!” Trixie tried to rally; it was hard when faced with a stare shaking so much. “But she does witchy things. Casting spells? Mixing potions? Seeing into the future?” “That’s just Cunning Mare stuff. She protects us and looks after us and tells us our future. She and her granddaughter and grandson there; they’re keeping the craft alive. They do NOT do dark magic or nothin’. They ain’t witches! We ain’t had no witches here in a hack’s age! They’re Cunning Mares! Got it?” “I got it, I got it,” Trixie muttered. “Cunning Mares, not witches. Yeesh.” Wheezy forced himself to shuffle onwards. Besides him, Rara shrugged and carried on walking. Trixie tried to ignore the sound of Mister Heads sniggering. “Like it matters,” Trixie whispered. Inside her head, she joined the dots and gave a little “aha”. Perhaps that was why she’d been greeted by tomato yesterday. These types have a thing against the occult, or at least those parts of it that looked witchy, and she’d looked plenty witchy last night. She filed this under “Potentially Interesting” and glanced to her right, beyond the carrot fields to the towering hills coming up. “What’s that?” Rara pointed, and the four of them stopped to stare. “That?” repeated Wheezy. It looked, at first glance, like someone had taken coal pieces and dropped them onto a green lump. They ran up and down the hillside, and a circle of them enclosed an area near the top, where two pointed ears stood up. From here, they looked vaguely like a picture of a dragon’s head, but with spikes only on its crown. “Oh, that! That’s the Horse with the Long Face!” he said happily. Trixie’s rolled her eyes. “Really? ‘The Horse with the Long Face’?” “That’s its name. Don’t wear it out.” “What a name! Of course it has a long face. It is a horse.” Wheezy snorted at her, and she shuddered at the heat rolling over her face. She was getting the impression he didn’t like her very much. There was a gap in the hedgerow on the right. Creaking and wincing and coughing as he went, Wheezy shuffled over to it and unlatched the gate. “Come on, we can get a better look, but you’d better not touch anything! It’s centuries old.” As they strode along a flat, raised path that cut across the sea of furrowed earth and spiky carrot leaves, Trixie raised the hem of her cloak and grimaced. There was way too much nature here for her liking. Mister Heads had overtaken her in order to walk behind Rara, who in turn walked behind Wheezy, as the path was so narrow that anything other than single file guaranteed muck on the hooves. “This place we’re going to,” said Rara. “Is it magical?” “As magical as it gets!” Wheezy gave a spit of a cough and continued, “The Horse with the Long Face –” Trixie tried not to giggle, and he shot a glare back at her. “– is said to contain an ancient and powerful creature born from the heavens above. It’s sleeping at the moment, but one day an evil force from beyond will invade the town, and when no one else can drive out the darkness, whoever is the Cunning Mare of the village will come up to the hill – just as we are doing today – and awaken the beast. Then, it will rise up out of the stones and drive out the invading force with its celestial fire.” He paused to chew the inside of his mouth. “Or it’ll destroy the world. One or the other. Depends which story you listen to.” His hacking laugh broke down into a hacking cough as they approached the next gate. He held it open for Rara and Mister Heads, but Trixie had to rush through to stop him slamming it on her. Another hacking laugh accompanied them as they made their way across a wooden panel bridge towards the hill. Now that they were closer, Trixie could make out the individual stones of the head. “Wow,” said Rara, eyes drinking in every detail. “I’ve only ever heard about these from ponies who went on vacation.” “Hmm,” said Mister Heads. “Aren’t they some kind of solar calendar?” “Hmph,” said Trixie. “Look at all the weeds. And that is nettle! Who’d want a calendar that could sting you?” Wheezy strode right past them and stretched a forelimb like a bar. “Come no further, fellows! You mustn’t pass beyond the standing stones lightly. Strange things happen to ponies who try.” Trixie peered around him. The grass flowed up their hillside, passed right through the stones, and then came out the other side to continue its rush towards the peak. There were dandelions dotted among the blades, and flatter patches of blotchy moss. Even the larks were darting in and out as though it were nothing. The only difference between the standing stones’ patch, and the rest of the hillside, was that it had standing stones in it. “Yes,” said Trixie. “They get stung by nettles. If it’s so important, you could do a little weeding up here every now and then.” “We’re not due a Scouring of the Horse,” growled Wheezy, lowering his forelimb, “for another couple of years. Excuse us if not all our folklore arrangements suit your timetable, Miss.” Rara stepped forwards and reached for the nearest stone, but then drew back a hoof and glanced across. At Wheezy’s friendly nod, she touched the ragged surface. Red flakes drifted down to the grass below. “Rust,” she said. “This is iron ore, isn’t it?” “Well spotted, Miss Rara!” Wheezy patted the stone next to it. “Amazing metal, iron. The magpies don’t dare come near here, and neither do any of the other dark creatures. Legend tells that they used to be a troupe of ponies who loved to dance and sing and play music together, all day and all night, whether rain befell them or sunlight shone on them. That’s why we call them the Dancing Stones.” Spotting Rara’s eyes lighting up for the first time during their walk, Trixie began scribbling furiously on her notepad. It’s a promising start – I’ll admit that much – and anything, she thought, is better than hearing a list of books about carrots. “My goodness,” said Rara. “So what happened to them?” “Well, they set out one midsummer’s night, as was their wont, and they began to sing and dance and play. And then… A curse! An evil curse, sent by the dark witches! Boom! Bam!” Wheezy threw his forelegs over his head. “They were hit by the dark magic like a meteor-thing crashing through the sky. My granddad said his cousin’s granddad said that the ponies back then saw a great light coming from yonder that night when he was sneaking out to meet his buddies at the tavern. And when the magic dust cleared, the troupe of ponies had all been turned to stone…” Trixie glanced up at the stones. They were… pony-sized, granted. And, if one were generous, a couple had slight carvings that might, if she tilted her head and squinted and asked a lot from her imagination, have looked like a deformed pair of eyes with a lopsided mouth, albeit one wrenched out of shape by too many emotions fighting for space. Apart from that, they resembled ponies in the same way that, oh, say… teeth resembled hand-crafted pony figurines made of china. “Also,” said Wheezy with a wink, “they can’t be counted.” “What does that mean?” said Rara, now rearing up to look at the carvings more closely. “Just what it sounds like. Anyone who tries to count the stones will never get it right.” “Oh, come on!” said Trixie. “That can’t be true! Look at them! You can see the whole lot right here, right now. I could count them in a couple of minutes.” “Ha. I’d like to see you try, Miss.” “Gladly.” With quick jabs of her pen and some muttering, she began picking out stone after stone, occasionally stopping to scribble something down on her notepad. At one point, she had to turn to the next page. “Ninety two… Ninety three… Ninety four…” she muttered, coming back to the one Rara was examining. “Ninety five… and ninety six. There. Ninety six. What’s so hard about that?” Wheezy hummed and grinned at her. “You included the ones that make up the eye? That circle up there?” “Of course I did. I’m telling you; it’s ninety six.” “Good, good. Now try counting the other way.” Trixie growled. This was exactly the sort of thing she’d been hoping he wouldn’t say. “To what point and purpose?” she said. “I’ve already counted them.” “Then it can’t hurt to do it again.” “Very well. If it pleases you,” she said with a mock bow of the head. Once again, she jabbed her pen and muttered under her breath and scribbled notes on her pad. As she approached Rara again from the other side, she felt the frown crawling back onto her face. Wheezy grinned at her. “Problem?” “No,” she lied. “Hold on, I think I missed one back there.” “Just the one?” he said. “I’ll count them again.” They waited patiently until she’d done so, but now Trixie could feel the heat rising in her head. Lunch was starting to sound like a good idea. Lack of food. That must be it. “Seventy two,” she said to him. “Is that including the ones making up the –” “Yes, that’s including the ones making up the eye! This is ridiculous! Rara, don’t move. Here, you hold this.” She shoved the notepad towards Mister Heads, who scrabbled to stop them falling onto the grass, and strode along the stones, tapping each one she passed with the nub of her pen. There must have been a mistake somewhere. Maybe she had missed the eye ones and not realized it. She was careful to keep all the stones within her sight at all times. As she drew level with the ears, she used the corner stone as a point of reference and stopped to count the eye stones. A dozen. Nowhere near enough, but she continued anyway. There must have been an error somewhere further along. She continued counting, and it occurred to her she couldn’t remember either of the numbers she’d gotten the first two times. Finally, she drew level with Rara and said loudly, “One hundred and twenty six.” Wheezy burst out into a fit of laughter. Rara smiled nervously. “Um,” she said. “For the love of…” said Trixie at once. “Did you move at all?” “No! Not an inch!” “Then it’s a trick of some kind. You’re moving them, or there’s a hiding place being used whenever I pass.” Wheezy coughed his way back to normality. “I saw you looking out the whole time. I think you’d notice if one of them started moving about, wouldn’t you? And how am I supposed to hide a big, heavy stone like it was nothing? Trapdoor, hidden behind the bush that isn’t there because we’re on an open hillside? No, it’s just the nature of the stones, Miss. Best to leave ‘em alone –” “I’m not going to be beaten by some ruddy rockery! One more time!” Trixie set off back the way she came, burning and trying not to kick the stones as she passed and tapped them. Chunks flew off with each hit. Again, she stopped at the ear to add the eye stones to her count. She could hear the smirk in the silence as she came back round. Wheezy looked like Hearth’s Warming had come early this year. “Riddled it out, yet?” he said cheerfully. “Got the final number?” Trixie glared at him hard enough to set fire to the air. “So… what was it?” asked Rara nervously. “Ninety six, or seventy two, or one hundred and twenty six?” “Or-ee oo,” mumbled Trixie to the distant road. “S-Sorry?” “I said it’s forty two.” “It’s completely different, isn’t it?” said Mister Heads. “It’s forty two! Forty two! For Pete’s sake! You don’t have to rub it in.” She rounded on Wheezy. “I will get to the bottom of this, you mark my words!” The old stallion just shrugged. “It’s your funeral. Forty two’s a new low, though. Those stones must really like you.” Trixie glared back and tried to focus on all the stones at once. There must be some kind of trick. For ease, she narrowed it down to the eye stones. Thirteen. There. At least that established… Wait. She counted the eye stones again. Eighteen. Biting hard enough to crack teeth, she counted and counted and got every number from eight to thirty six. It didn’t make sense, because nothing moved at all, and she could’ve sworn she could see them all in one gaze. But as she focused on any one stone, now she tried to snatch glimpses into her peripheral vision, and she noticed a slight flicker, a haze where there should’ve been a shadow. Aha… “Is she ill?” said a voice in front of her. “Or does she always stick her tongue out like that?” Trixie’s gaze shot down to the bonneted pony standing in front of her. Hastily, she sucked her tongue back in and rearranged her face into something less objectionable. To her surprise, Wheezy had bowed his head and was staring at the grass beneath him. “Um,” he said, “afternoon, Miss Biddy.” “‘Biddy’? Your name’s ‘Biddy’?” Trixie stared at the mare’s dark brown face, which had the stubby, bulbous muzzle and the big, round eyes of a mare still a few months from leaving fillyhood. Despite her height – she was still eye level with Trixie – the mare had to be younger than she was. “Well, every old pony has to start out somewhere, eh?” said Biddy with a grin. Trixie winced. She’d never met a gaze so penetrating from a pony. It seemed to be staring through her eyes right to the pink brain pulsing behind it. Trixie’s own eyes began to water as though punctured. “She was just counting the stones, Miss Biddy,” said Wheezy to his hooves. “Ah. She’s faring better than most, then. I see her brains aren’t leaking out of her ears.” Unsure if the grinning mare was joking, Trixie fixed her with a stare beneath a raised eyebrow. Grey shawl… brown tunic… white bonnet… woven basket on her back, full of what smelled and looked like mushrooms of various colours and flavours and diseases. “So you are one of these Cunning Mares I’ve been hearing so much about?” Trixie said carelessly. “And you are the, ah, ‘witch’ I’ve been hearing so much about.” Biddy grinned even more widely and winked at her. “You gotta be careful what words you use around here, then. Don’t want to awaken an old curse by accident, now do we?” Mister Heads nudged Trixie. “You want these back?” She levitated the notepad from him without breaking eye contact with the Cunning Mare. Beside the white bonnet, Rara was staring with her mouth wide open, and Wheezy was glancing nervously from one to the other. “Who are you tormenting now, Sis?” said a male voice behind her. It was another Cunning Mare, but where the first looked like a mound of soil patted into shape, this one was dazzlingly white like a beam of light given shape. He had a far more triangular face than usual, pinched at the front so that, at a glance, he could’ve been mistaken for a slender mare. Trixie vaguely remembered tales of Elven Ponies that had been swapped among the first-year students, and now she seemed to be looking right into the goldenrod eyes of one. His grin was the twin of the other pony’s, though. Trixie’s mind drew a card. “Brother and sister, by any chance?” she said, head still turned to face him. “Of course,” said the male voice behind her. She turned back, and had to blink. Where the mare had stood, now the stallion was watching her serenely. Rara laughed and stamped her front hooves in appreciation. Certain magician’s instincts waved at her mind for attention, but Trixie barely needed them. When she looked over her shoulder again, Biddy was waving cheerfully at her. She felt her eyebrows rising on impulse before she caught them and sent them back down. No rewards went to a parlour trick. No one who tried the old switcheroo double-act on her was going to get anything better than a smirk. She’d mastered that trick before the first semester was over. Very cute, she thought, and is that all you’ve got? “And this…” crooned Wheezy, gesturing with a flourish towards the stallion when Trixie returned her gaze, “this is Master Early Bird, the second Cunning Mare.” Early Bird inclined his head, but the grin remained fixed in place. It was starting to scrape across Trixie’s nerves like a file on a rusty saw. Her eyes narrowed. “But he’s a –” “He’s a Cunning Mare,” said Wheezy at once. He was making frantic gestures behind Early Bird’s back, which looked to Trixie like he was having a seizure. “Understand? It’s a high title, OK? Or a name anyone can take up and start acting out. The Cunning Mare. It’s a job. Yes! Got it? Look, all you need to know is that he’s a Cunning Mare.” Trixie remained resolutely unsurprised. “We see you’re enjoying the Horse with the Long Face,” said Early Bird brightly. “Wheezy’s giving you the grand tour, or so we gather,” said Biddy, if anything, even more brightly, and she stepped around Trixie to join her brother. Side by side, they looked more like day and night; Biddy’s eyes were midnight blue. Rara was rubbing her chin, pouting in apparent thought. Her gaze zipped from one Cunning Mare to the other. Both of her ears were cocked towards them. “Oh yes,” said Mister Heads casually. “Stoned dancers, buried guardians, uncountable rocks… Looks like this place has a busy schedule.” “It is also,” said Biddy, “a place where true romance can be discovered between ponies.” Trixie hummed in feigned nonchalant interest while inside, her gooey core began to leak out. A slight blush escaped her hardened face. Treachery as it was, she had a soft spot for this kind of thing. Not that she was interested in it, at all. Not personally, anyway. But a mare could enjoy romance novels without actually being romantic, couldn’t she? After all, Daring Do fans didn’t have to raid tombs to enjoy reading about a tomb-raider. “When two souls meet at midnight within the stones,” said Early Bird. “They will know for certain whether or not they are truly soulmates,” said Biddy. “Many happy marriages have begun here. But the magic only works if they both go.” “It’s a hallowed custom, dating back many centuries. Most things do around here, you’ll find.” And to Trixie’s surprise and relief and fascination, the pair softened their grins into two small smiles. Their eyes – two suns, two new moons – began to moisten. With ease, the pair reached forwards and placed one hoof each on one shoulder, Early Bird’s on Trixie’s, Biddy’s on Mister Heads’. “Welcome to Fall Bridge, fellow travellers,” they said in unison. “Uh…” Mister Heads glanced at Trixie for help. “Th-Thanks?” said Trixie. After a few seconds, she started to squirm. “Don’t mind my brother,” said Biddy. “He likes to mess with ponies’ heads.” “So does my sister,” said Early Bird. “It’s her way of saying hello. And it’s fun.” As they walked back down the road, Rara cocked an ear towards the farmers still out in the fields. Words wafted in the wind, so as they drew closer, the party glanced left and right to watch, and swivelled their ears to pick up the tune. On the hedgerow, seven magpies had landed and were watching the work with keen interest. The farmers were singing, each one picking up a line where the other stopped. “I fear the maggot-pie, my child!” “For out beyond the forests wild…” “And watching through those beady eyes…” “The evil Witch wants pony pies.” “Maggot-pie?” muttered Mister Heads. “It’s just an old name for the common magpie,” said Early Bird with a shrug. “Listen and learn.” “I fear the maggot-pie, my flesh!” “For she’d prefer to catch you fresh.” “So says the hag when seeking meat…” “At midnight, creeping down the street.” “I fear the maggot-pie, my sweet!” “It sees you as a gruesome treat.” “So death’s a-coming; watch for claws.” “Tonight, you watch for teeth and jaws!” “I fear the maggot-pie, my dear!” “For it’s a spy, a beldam’s seer.” “So throw a stone to scare away…” “That beast, and live another day!” “They wouldn’t actually do that, would they?” said Rara in alarm. “Of course not,” said Biddy. “It’s an old song. But it’s best not to say anything nice about magpies, just in case.” As they made their way back along the road, Trixie fell into line alongside Rara, who was staring at the two Cunning Mares with her head cocked to one side. She was humming the tune to herself while the farmers broke out into song again, taking it in turns to tackle the lines. Swell. Folk music, Trixie thought. This is too easy. Way too easy. All they sing about is stuff like lovers and seasons and what a “jolly ol’ life” it was to muck in the mud all day. She’s never going to draw a crowd at that level. That said, the tune of “Filly Fall” echoed within her mind, and Rara’s voice overwhelmed the lot. Perhaps none of that mattered. No one was going to pay attention to the lyrics once they heard that singing. Except… Trixie’s mind drifted back to the first night at the tavern. But that had just been a ditty for a dozen dullards; who was to say it wouldn’t work for hundreds, thousands, even hundreds of thousands of other ponies anywhere else? A few hicks from a sleepy village weren’t going to matter very much, at least not in the long run. Not when they’d been dead to the world in any case. Then again, at this stage Rara probably had a point. For now, cater to the small crowd. Make ‘em feel important. And then, when this thing gets off the ground, stop acting like a tailor and start investing in a clothes chain. “I think I’ve got an idea,” said Rara suddenly. Trixie shook herself back into a stifling, aching, and over-bright reality. “Hm?” “We’d need to bring in a couple more singers,” continued Rara, “but it’d be a neat compromise. We want to move on from the small scale of the ‘Filly Fall’ song, but not so far that we jump too soon to the ambitious material.” “What do you mean ‘ambitious’?” said Trixie. “I figure, if we’re going to make it big, then we’ll need to rise to a climax, and that means a steady build-up. It’s like building tension in a story. You don’t just jump to the great spectacle. You ease into it.” “Makes sense to me. So what’s the plan?” Only then did Trixie notice the bonnets on either side of them. Hastily, she looked up to Early Bird’s cocked ear. “Ahem,” she said. “That’s a sore throat you got there,” he said cheerfully, devoid of shame from his tone to his smile. “We’ve heard of you,” said Biddy next to Rara. “You’re the mare who sang this morning.” “And brought new life to old traditions,” said Early Bird. “You were amazing! The timbre, the pace, the range!” “So what’s your next plan? We’re dying to find out!” Trixie glared at him. She was sure the sudden rotting compost smell was coming from his mouth. “That,” she said huffily, “is private. Now, if you’d be so generous as to grant us –” “Some assistance?” said Biddy, almost squealing. “We’d love to!” “It would be a tremendous honour,” said Early Bird, “to assist with the lovely mare…?” Rara giggled. “Please, call me Rara.” A flare from her horn caught their attention; Trixie stopped on the road and waited until they turned to face her. “Excuse me,” she said, “but that stage is for Miss RRRRRRara’s exclusive use as of this moment in time. The Great and Powerful Trixie does not let just anyone jump on like it’s a free-for-all buffet.” Both Cunning Mares hummed with interest and took steps closer. They weren’t, she knew, any taller than she was, but they had a certain loom to their features that would’ve rivalled even Mister Heads’. Her cold-reading kicked in: they were used to getting their way, they believed themselves to be lord and lady around here, and they had the smug, cheery confidence of the chronic hustler. “And,” she said, flicking at her hair and pretending not to notice them, “don’t think you can ‘persuade’ me either.” Immediately, the looms became cheery bobs. Both ponies seemed to be bouncing on the spot with sheer manic friendliness. “Goodness me, we meant nothing at all!” said Biddy. “It’s certainly not our business to force or cajole you.” “It would be remiss of us,” said Early Bird, “if we didn’t help you out, and that includes respecting your wishes.” “Like warning you about the Mayor,” continued Biddy, and the simper quivered on her lips. “And his efficiency and quickness.” “Such as making sure no unregistered caravans are left lying on the village green,” finished Early Bird, and he sighed at the ground. “But that’s ridiculous!” Trixie said. “I am a travelling mare! I’m always allowed leeway whenever I need to set up for my act.” “Oh we believe you,” cooed Biddy. “It’s just… well, you know how mayors are, right?” Trixie rolled her eyes. That was their angle. Of course there was an angle. There always was an angle. From the moment they’d been leaning in to listen, their bodies had radiated with interest. She didn’t need cold-reading to peg them as nosy parkers and busybodies. Unfortunately, they’d found a good angle. Mayors were worse than mobs. Mobs were easy to handle so long as you slept light and had a quick set of hooves, and at least they only went for you after seeing the show. A mayor, though, could stop a show before she’d even rolled into town, and all with a polite cough and an unfurling of the scroll. In their hooves, the rolled-up document was mightier than the pitchfork. They also squabbled like vultures, and that usually just led to more coughs being polite and more scrolls being unfurled. “But,” said Early Bird, “we have some… influence over the Mayor. Give us a chance to smooth things out with him…” “And you can leave your caravan exactly where you want it to be.” Biddy peered across at the rows of carrots and the crisscrossing of the farmers. “The show will go on.” Trixie narrowed her eyes. “Isn’t that kind of you… and so, shall we head back to talk to him, or would you prefer to keep talking here?” Early Bird gave her a wounded look. “Talk about what, pray?” “Are you offering us a chance to let our voices be heard, then?” said Biddy with faux surprise. “Is that what I’m doing?” said Trixie coldly. “The Great and Powerful Trixie does not worry about mere fiddle-faddle like bureaucratic bumbl” – hastily, she glanced at Rara, realized how she was going to sound, and added – “bureaucratic ponies.” “Can you sing?” said Rara, voice snapping like a whip. “I could invite you, if you think you have the skill to handle it.” “Excuse me,” began Trixie, and then she cut herself off at the sight of Rara’s raised eyebrow. “Oh, don’t worry about that,” said Early Bird, bowing his head to the singer. “We’re Cunning Mares. The villagers trust us and our judgement. If we just turn up to listen, everyone will turn up.” “And we’ve had some practice,” said Biddy, and she tittered. “A bit of rhyme every now and then helps bolster mystic acumen.” “‘Cause nothing says ‘ye good ol’ witch’ like conj’ring verse without a hitch.” Early Bird winked at his sister. “It takes five beats and a lightning mind, and our technique has been refined.” “By dear ol’ Gran, the Cunning Mare.” “So we make quite the tuneful pair!” Early Bird went down on his knees and raised his front hooves in supplication. “Just give us a chance to prove our skill!” Biddy lowered herself to the ground as though hailing a queen. “Tonight… we’ll bow to your good will.” Rara smiled and nodded to them. “Not bad, but it’ll take more than quick-witted poetry to make it as a singer. Biddy, you’d make quite a good contralto with that deep voice of yours. And you, Early Bird… I think you’d fit in as a baritone. Now, a tenor should complete the set…” Both Cunning Mares straightened up and frowned. “Pardon?” they said in unison. “Contralto?” said Biddy. “Baritone?” said Early Bird. “Tenor?” they said as one. “Those are different vocal categories,” said Rara, “based on pitch and range. Contralto is the lowest pitch for a mare, and baritone is about the middle range for a stallion. But we’d need a tenor for the highest pitch, or a soprano…” Beyond the chatting heads, Trixie noticed Wheezy stumbling back for them, having walked some way without noticing. The small party stopped and waited for him to stop trying to gasp his lungs out. “S-Sorry,” he wheezed, and Trixie winced at the way her ears split under that shriek-of-a-voice. “Sorry. Din’t. Think.” He gradually became aware of their stares. “Can. Can I. Help you?” Rara’s smile widened. “Mister Wheezy, I understand this might sound like a silly question, but do you sing at all?” “Hm?” Wheezy had gone cross-eyed with the effort of breathing in. “Oh. Singing? Yes. Loads of. Loads of s-singing. Folk songs. In bath. Out in fields when. When I were a colt. Yodel.” By this point, Trixie’s ears were shutting down through sheer abuse. Like this, his voice was a knife. “You must be joking,” she said. “But he’s been so kind,” said Rara. “And I don’t suppose you’d mind, would you Mister Wheezy, if I asked you to join me on stage again for my next performance?” At once, the wheezing stopped. “N-Next performance? Me?” “Singing tenor?” she said. “It would be the least I could do, after the warm welcome and generosity you’ve been showing.” “Me? Singing? In front of… In front of…” He went cross-eyed again, and Trixie knew he had been ensnared. She could see the stars dancing in his eyes, though it might have just been because he was about to faint. “Tenor?” he said, frowning. “Means singing the highest pitch,” said Early Bird. “Apparently,” added Biddy. “Oh, I can sing on any kind of pitch,” he said with a dismissive flap of his wrist. “I used to yodel from the mountains once. Well, not mountains, ‘cause the land around here ain’t big enough, but the hills were almost mountain-sized. Why, I can sing higher than tenor, you know!” “You mean countertenor and falsetto?” said Rara. “Yeah,” he said. “Them. Sung from mountain-sized hills. That were the highest of all.” “Great! I think I have just the thing. I just need a little longer to work out the details.” Once they began walking again, Trixie shot forwards to walk alongside her. “Are you sure this is a good idea?” she whispered to the singer. “They’re not professional standard, you know.” “They’ll do. Think of it as a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, eh?” Rara winked at her. “How noble of you.” Trixie grimaced. The words “And when were you going to ask me for permission?” wanted to jump up her throat, but she didn’t know how to respond to a glare, a pitying look, a shocked look, a disappointed droop of the ears… After a few silent minutes, she settled for: “So what is your plan, may I ask?” “If we’re going to be a band,” said Early Bird, “then don’t we need a name?” “We’re not technically a ‘band’,” said Rara. “I think actual musicians would have to be involved for us to be a ‘band’. We’re a ‘quartet’ for now.” “OK,” said Biddy. “What will we call our ‘quartet’, then?” “Does it need a name?” said Trixie. “Of course!” said Early Bird. “Names are important. How about…” “Um,” said Wheezy, “how about the Four Reasonably Good Singers? Well, it’s true, isn’t it?” He stuck his chin out defiantly. “A bit too prosaic,” said Rara. “But I remember an old nicknaming trick I used when I was a filly. Just take the identifiable bits of a long name, and use them for a contraction.” “But there are four of us, with four names,” said Wheezy. “It might be tricky, but I think I could make the principle work when applied to all of us at once.” “And…?” said Biddy. Rara hummed for a while. “OK, uh… how about… Early… Biddy… Wheezy… Ra?” She smiled apologetically at the silence. “Early Biddy Wheezy Ra?” said Biddy. “Me neither,” she said quickly. “What about something exotic and earthy?” said Early Bird. “Like Yak Zits.” “What!?” said Trixie. “Well, yaks are exotic. And there isn’t much that’s earthy like a zit where you don’t want it to be.” Trixie smirked. “You had some unhappy teenage years, didn’t you?” “Everyone does.” Early Bird’s ears went pink. “Listen! Rara is the star of my show on my stage, so clearly the name should be something like ‘Rara and the X’s’. All you need then is something with a bit of punch or kick to it. Say, ‘Rara and the Cunning Mares’, or ‘Rara and the Country Colts’. Something old-timey but classy.” “How about ‘The Cross Stitch’?” said Biddy. “Your cloak’s starting to split at the seams.” “Very funny,” said Trixie. She murmured the words to herself, though. “So… ‘Rara and the Cross Stitch’?” They shrugged, even Mister Heads who had been trailing behind them a yard or so. Trixie nudged Rara in the ribs. “So, what’s your plan?” she said. “What’s the unexpected?” “Well, we need something low-tech, so an a capella group would make a good starting point.” Rara gave her a wink. “Also, I think we need to get close to a choir, but with fewer numbers so we can manage our resources better, feel our way upwards.” “You have it figured out, then?” Trixie said, ignoring the clause about a ‘something low-tech’. “Yeah.” Rara glanced across at the farmers among the green beans. “Have you ever heard of something called… barbershop?”