I've always wondered if I was ever an art critic in my past life.
My eyes are focused on the piece of paper in front of me, as I tilt my head left and right trying to make sense of what I'm looking at. It’s drawn in crayon. It is a picture of a pony with soulless eyes and crooked teeth covered in red stains. Its mane is a nest of messy blonde hair. Jagged scars line its body. It’s ugly. It’s terrifying. It’s unsightly.
It’s me—Goldie, the zombie.
This is a wanted poster.
I am standing in front of town hall in front of a bulletin board. Most ponies would put up flyers for job postings, services, or lost pets. But right in the middle of clusters of papers is a crayon-drawn wanted poster that must have been done by a child. There’s even a reward below it: five bits and a half eaten sapphire by the looks of it. I wonder why the reward was drawn too.
My tail flicks back and forth. I know I should be offended, but I can't bring myself to hate whoever put this up. I have a feeling I know who drew this. Am I mad? No, not really. I guess I'm just disappointed, not in the artist but in myself. It’s hard being normal.
Maybe I should just turn myself in.
“Goldie,” Fluttershy calls at a distance away. “Sweet Apple Acres is this way.”
My eyes linger on the unflattering portrait before I follow her.
We are out and about today to help Applejack, the pony with the apple cutie mark and the hat. Rainbow Dash is busy today, having to work with the weather ponies. Despite how fast she can move and kick clouds, she is constantly being called into work, though I figure it’s because of her tendency to sleep on the job. I've seen her napping on a cloud in the middle of the day. Colorful streaks of rainbow in the sky aren't exactly subtle.
But back to the matter at hoof. Applejack also happens to have a dog that needs to be checked on, which Fluttershy has volunteered to do. We make it as far as the entrance to the farm’s property before we stop. My hooves hesitate to go further. I've been to this place before, but never actually in it. It's where I first met the little filly. But this time, I'm going to be walking in as a guest, and unfortunately, I don't know a thing about being a good guest. What if they start asking me questions? Is it a faux pas not being able to answer?
Fluttershy nudges me on. “It’s okay,” she says. “You remember Applejack, right? She’s nice and so is the rest of her family.”
I stare at her, feeling like a shy child, and nod.
“Heya Fluttershy!” a loud voice calls from afar.
The orange mare trots up to us from the apple orchard. She’s covered in a fresh coat of sweat and dirt, no doubt from working hard in the fields. She gives off a sort of down-home vibe one would normally find in a cowpony.
“Hope ya don't mind with the way I look. Just got done with harvestin’.” Her eyes drifts towards me. A little surprised at first, she smiles. “Oh. And you brought Goldie, too. How’ve you been?”
I go with something simple—a shrug and a grin. Simple without the need for words or the complications of elaboration.
She gives me a hearty clap on the back, still as exuberant as the day we first met. “Well, it’s nice to see ya around!” She turns to Fluttershy. “Winona’s in the barn. Ever since that skunk sprayed her, she’s been stinkin’ worse than Big Mac after a night of beans.”
“Oh my, I'll see what I can do,” Fluttershy says.
Applejack takes us to the barn, and upon opening the door, a little brown dog leaps out and rushes towards us. The smell must have been terrible by the way both Applejack and Fluttershy are holding their noses, but it doesn’t affect me much. It stops every few paces to rub its body against the dirt to rid itself of the acrid stench.
Then it notices me, and I freeze. Can it smell the decomposition under the flowery soaps and shampoo? I hope not. Do you know how long it takes to change these bandages? I don't need another bath.
The dog runs up to me, sniffs my leg, and starts gnawing on it.
“Winona, no!” Applejack rushes to my side to pull Winona off. “Bad dog! No biting now, ya hear me?”
At hearing her master’s voice, the dog tucks her tail and whimpers, looking duly chastised.
“Sorry about that,” she apologizes. “She’s usually behaved around most ponies.”
Fluttershy is suddenly by my side to inspect my chewed leg. “Are you okay? You're not hurt, are you?” she asks.
I have had way worse injuries in the past, and it doesn't look like the dog broke the skin. “I'm…fine,” I tell her. “Honest.”
Fluttershy looks at me and then at Winona, who is now being put on a leash by Applejack. The cowpony is trying not to tear up from the smell as she hooks the leash on. “Maybe you should wait out here,” Fluttershy says.
It’s probably sound advice. I nod slowly as they take the dog back inside.
There isn't much for me to do on the farm. I guess I can amble aimlessly, but what would be the point? It wouldn't be any different from what I was doing back in the Everfree. Is there something I'm supposed to be doing? If there is, I just don’t know. It’s hard to become something new by some vague instructions coming from a pony in my head.
One of the first things I notice is an old mare sitting on the back porch in a rocking chair. She’s the kind, old mare Apple Bloom spoke of, the one I have to thank for giving me the apple on my first visit to Ponyville. Time has wrinkled her face and whitened her hair, but it hasn’t dulled her bright eyes as she gives me a friendly look.
“Howdy there, stranger! Are ya here fer Applejack? Or maybe fer Big Mac? Bout time that colt meets a cute mare.”
I shake my head, trying to force eye contact. “Just…Applejack.”
“Course you are! I'm only kidding. Name’s Granny Smith, but you can call me Granny!” the old mare says. I think it’s strange calling someone Granny when she isn't even my grandmother, but at the same time, it makes me feel a little less lonely. It's like I have a family again. For a mare of her age, she still acts with a spring in her step, undeterred by the passing of time. “Don’t suppose you can help me up? This rickety ol’ hip ain’t what it used to be.”
Well, mostly undeterred.
I pull her outstretched hoof and help her onto her hooves. Her legs wobble, but they manage to stand as she walks inside. I walk by her side for her to lean on me for support.
“Thank ya kindly. You're such a nice mare. What was your name again?’
“Goldie…” I say.
“Well, that’s a nice name,” she says. “You remind me a lot of my daughter. Don’t suppose you got any Apple family kin, do you?”
I give an uncertain shrug. While entirely in the realm of possibility, I doubt I’m related.
We make it to the kitchen, and she starts pulling out pie tins, bowls, and other various kitchen utensils. “Dearie, can you get me that jar up there?” She points at a glass jar on the highest shelf.
Even with my help, it seems out of my reach. Looking around, I spot a stepping stool and pull it below the shelf. Standing on two legs on the stool, a feat that would have been near impossible for me if not for the table’s leverage, I stretch a hoof towards the container, but it still comes up short. The jar seems ridiculously out of reach, especially for the old mare. In terms of motor control and flexibility, I'm not much better than she is.
“Just a little higher,” she says.
Hot air escapes my nostrils as I’m practically climbing the table to reach it. My hooves bump against the glass, and I'm trying desperately not to push it further in. My hoof lightly bats the jar closer to me.
Clink! Clink!
It goes teetering over the edge and drops into my hooves as they juggle the jar, trying to find a good grip. Being an earth pony, I wish I was a unicorn instead. Hooves are not meant for holding delicate objects.
My back hits the floor while I'm still clutching the jar to my chest. The glass is filled with some kind of rainbow mush.
The old mare takes the jar and sets it on the table. “Mighty thanks for helping me get that. You've been such a nice filly. I know just the thing to reward ya.” She rummages in a drawer for a wooden spoon and scoops out a large portion of that rainbow stuff. The colors seem to swirl in my eyes.
I open my mouth to decline. “Uh…”
A spoon is forcefully shoved in my mouth, halting whatever response I can come up with. A choked sound escapes my mouth. The spoon comes out with a pop as Granny smiles warmly. “It’s the first batch of zap apple jam. What do ya think?”
I nod slowly, trying to swallow it down with difficulty. It’s like having cotton mouth that doesn't go away. There's a dull tingling of flavor that may pack a punch to normal ponies, but to me, my mouth is numb to the senses for the most part. I give a polite smile, my teeth looking like they've been smeared by a rainbow.
There is the ring of a cooking timer. She starts pulling a tray of hot pastries out of the oven. “Good! Don’t be shy, have some more!”
I don't know how much time has passed as the next moment is filled with apple pies, apple fritters, apple pickles, and so on. Just a whirlwind of apple-based foods. If I ever have to eat another apple, it will be the death of me for sure. Walking out of that house feeling about ten pounds heavier, I flee towards the fields.
Straight rows of dug up soil line one of the fields. A lone plow sits in the middle of one of the unfinished rows. Walking circles around the farming tool, I give it a little kick and nudge. It barely budges.
A shadow falls over me. “Can I help you?”
My head turns to the voice, and I am met by a hulking red stallion.
“Shouldn’t be playing with the tools,” he says.
I shrivel slightly under his gaze. He straps himself with the harnesses attached to the plow. The harnesses grow taut as he pulls it along with the plow, the metal blade digging into the earth. The soils gives away easily to the pull of his tool.
While he works, I follow closely by him, examining the plow, the dirt, and of course the stallion himself.
He wears a large collar around his neck. There is a sprig of wheat in his mouth. His eyes are like Applejack’s. Same goes for the freckles that dust his face like hay seeds. A breeze blows through his mane like wind in a wheat field. His eyes takes quick glances at me when his cutie mark falls under my scrutiny. I can see the muscles working underneath his skin.
Up close, he is very big, muscles developed from working on a farm. Built like a bulldozer but quieter than a mouse. A gentle giant, he is. It's very hard not to stare at him.
This is a living, breathing stallion. Big, strong, and quiet. And also sweaty. He’s a hardworking pony who takes his work seriously. I can tell. It's in the eyes.
Walking side-by-side, we are almost touching each other. You'd have to get a book to fit something between us. Like a repelling magnet, he distances himself from me, causing a crooked line in the field. He looks uncomfortable. But then I remember: I'm a mare. He's a stallion. When a stallion catches a mare staring at him, it usually means there's an attraction. I haven't thought about love in a long time. That thing that made hearts go pitter patter. There were ups and downs and unexpected turns, just one big emotional rollercoaster. But it's not for me. Not right now at least.
Noticing his discomfort, I take that as my cue to back off and hold my curiosity. Have I ever met another stallion like him in my past life? I honestly can’t recall.
He clears his throat to catch my attention. “Been staring an awful lot,” he says.
I stare into his face before glancing at the plow instead. I hope he doesn't pick up on my embarrassment.
He shifts the weight of the harness, looking a tad more uncomfortable. “Do you want to try pulling it?”
My attention whips back to the stallion, surprising him, and I nod. I've wanted to try it since I saw it.
He stops to unhook himself from the simple contraption. I stand in front of the plow while he works on getting the harnesses on.
“You going to be fine with all those bandages?” he asks me.
I nod.
There is a little resistance at first, but once I start moving, it comes easily to me. I don't know why, but I love the feeling of loamy soil beneath my hooves. It feels nice. There's something comforting about it. Unlike what I did to him, the stallion chooses not to stare at me and only gives an occasional glance. Sometimes, he bumps me when I veer off and corrects my path.
“Eeyup,” he says to the silence.
I glance at him. “Eeyup,” I say back, earning a raised brow from him.
We eventually get used to each other, going up and down the rows, working methodically. His face seems to relax compared to the initial wariness held upon meeting a stranger. Even though it’s work, I feel good about it. Despite my lethargic movements from before, my legs are moving at a reasonable pace, like shaking the cobwebs out of dusty machinery. Eventually, he forces me to stop and unhooks me from the plow.
“Thanks for the help,” he says.
We’re done.
He gives me a thoughtful look, as if he's still trying to figure me out, and then shifts the wheat in his mouth before spitting it out. He holds a hoof out. “Big Macintosh.”
I just look at it for a very long time before hesitantly bumping it with a hoof. “Goldie.” I lick my dry lips. “It was…fun.”
Up until this point, I think that was the longest, wordless conversation I ever had with a pony. You don't need words to have a conversation, but it makes it a lot more interesting.
I don't know what to say at this point, and as if picking up on my awkwardness, he starts trotting away. “Gotta finish something in the barn. I'll see ya around,” he says that last part warmly.
I nod, even though his back is turned. “Can…” I begin. “Can I visit…again?”
He gives a glance over his shoulder and nods. “Eeyup.”
I feel relieved at hearing there was going to be a next time. Making my way back, I stop by the barn and peek inside. There is a tub in the center filled with soap and various bottles of liquid in hoof’s reach of the two mares trying to hold down the excited dog.
“Winona, would ya sit still for a sec? Fluttershy, can you reapply the shampoo?” Applejack asks.
When Fluttershy finally notices me, she smiles sheepishly. “Just a little while longer, Goldie.”
The dog also takes notice of me and bolts out of the tub, still sopping wet and sudsy. I close the door quickly and hear the scratches of claws on the wooden door, as well as the voice of an irate owner.
There is some comfort to having a leisurely stroll at Sweet Apple Acres than the Everfree Forest. No monsters for one. Also there aren’t any prickly thorn bushes or large shrubbery to get in my way. Being out here, I can think.
Among the dense forest of apple trees, one in particular stands out. A large treehouse is nestled in it, probably belonging to the little farm filly, Apple Bloom. It looks almost like a children’s playhouse, but bigger and more impressive. There’s even curtains and a flower garden by the window.
My hooves trot up the ramp leading inside. I know I really shouldn’t, but I can't help my curiosity. Sunlight brightens the empty room through the windows and doorway. The floor creaks under my weight.
There are drawings and posters taped along the walls and dolls and toys messily stuffed in a chest. A little tea set sits on the table, used for make-believe teatime with royal imaginary guests. Everything that made up childhood, condensed into one small room—so young, so innocent.
I am in awe of everything, though I suppose it has more to do with a lack of memory than childhood nostalgia. Yes, I know kids do these things, but I wish I knew what I was doing when I was younger. Maybe read a book or play with a favorite doll. Maybe if I had met a younger Fluttershy, we’d have played together. Wouldn't that be nice?
But I don't have those memories, just the ones I have now. I am just suddenly here. Dropped in the middle of the present. No past, no memory, no pony to tell me who I am. There is no recollection of the sugary dream of growing up in childhood or the nightmarish complications of adolescence.
There is a map on the wall on the far side of the room. A massive forest covers most of the map. Only a few landmarks are familiar. The small town of Ponyville and the Everfree Forest that borders closely by it. A red circle is drawn in the forest around a familiar looking hut. Why does a filly have a map of the Everfree Forest?
The door to the room opens with a little filly standing outside it.
“Oh. Uh, hi?” she greets.
I stand stock still. I look like a trespasser. Actually, I am trespassing, but it’s not like there was a sign I couldn't be here. This probably looks bad. What if she tells on me? What if she gets an angry mob? My face is already posted in front of town hall. One small spark can set my future on fire.
But instead of all of that, she says, “It’s you.” She holds a hoof to her chin. “Goldie, right? That's what Fluttershy called you.”
I nod slowly.
“What are ya doing in my clubhouse?”
I fumble for words. “Sight…seeing.”
She raises a brow. “Right… Well, this is the Cutie Mark Crusaders’ headquarters. It's where me and my friends work on getting our cutie marks.”
I glance at her markless flank.
“We’re still working in it,” she says, noticing my gaze. Her eyes drift away from mine and wanders to my left side. “You know, I never did get a good look at your cutie mark. How’d you get yours anyway?”
I turn to my flank, staring at my cutie mark as if it’s the first time seeing it. My favorite flower sits on my rear end. “I… I don’t…”
“Hey, that’s poison joke!” she suddenly says. “Wow, I wonder what you had to do to get a cutie mark like that.”
“Poison… Joke?”
“Yeah! Applejack and her friends stepped on some a while back, and it did all sorts of crazy things to them.” She circles around me, scrutinizing my cutie mark in every angle and lighting. “I'm surprised you don't know what poison joke is.”
I shake my head.
“So, how‘d did you get your cutie mark?”
“Don’t know.”
“Really? You don't remember at all?”
I shrug. The cutie mark on my flank is about as familiar as a stranger you’d meet on the train. I wouldn't remember it at all unless someone pointed it out. It’s just there, silently judging me.
Here is a question for those who already have their cutie marks: what’s in a cutie mark and why are we so driven to find out what it is? Since birth, we ponies strive to get our marks without so much as a thought on the introspective truth. But none of that matters as long as we have a place among our cutie marked peers.
Apple Bloom tosses her saddlebags onto the table. “Well, whatever. At least you got yours. Me and my friends still gotta get ours.” She grows a little sullen.
These fillies are at that age where cutie marks have consumed their thoughts. It must be tough not knowing your calling in life. Even children have their own problems.
“You’d think that with everypony getting their cutie marks there’s gotta be a reason for being here.” Her face hardens. “Every lock’s gotta have a key, and every jigsaw piece has gotta be part of a bigger picture. Everybody’s gotta have a purpose for ending up where they are. So why can't I find my cutie mark?”
She lets out a heavy sigh, burying her face in her hooves, and grows quiet, and for a moment, I'm concerned when she hasn’t said anything for a while. But then she says, “Sorry for ramblin’. I'm only just thinkin’.”
“What are you…thinking about…now?"
She looks at me and gives a small smile. “Why am I talking to some strange mare in my clubhouse?” She giggles. “But now, I'm just thinking why it’s so easy to talk to you. You just sit there and listen. I can hardly tell what you're thinking.”
My expression hardly changes. “Need…other ponies…to talk,” I say. “Otherwise…go crazy.”
“Then Big Mac would’ve gone crazy a long time ago,” she says, laughing some more.
I shake my head. “No… He talks,” I say softly. “More than words…can say.”
She tilts her head questionly. “Y’know, Goldie, you're pretty strange,” she says. “But that ain’t a bad thing. Just different.” She beams at me. “Granny says that it takes different kinds of ponies to make the world.”
I can see this filly will grow up as a bright young mare, especially being raised by a family like hers. With a wise grandmother, a hardworking brother, and a loving sister, she will turn out just fine.
But I can't match her smile.
Life is already hard enough without constantly being reminded that I don't have a family. I know I had to come from somewhere, I do. But if I have any living relatives, then why hasn't anyone come looking for me? They had to have. No letters, no visits, no word from the mare I used to be. But what if—and this possibility has come up before—no one cared about me. They could be living their lives as usual, not knowing the mare they’ve known was rotting in a ditch. To become forgotten like the millions of other ponies who are buried beneath the earth, like defective apple seeds that will never grow and never bear fruit. I’d weep for that mare if I could.
Her face twists into a look of confusion as my hoof gently pats her head.
I pull my hoof back. “I should go now.”
“I'll come with ya,” she says, following me out the door. It's nice to know she's not put off by my appearance or my dreary disposition.
As we walk, she talks about her friends and their cutie mark crusade. It's a one-sided conversation, but I don't mind. Soon enough, we reach the barn where Winona was being washed. The barn door is open, and Fluttershy is the first pony to notice me.
Most of her is soaked. Through her dripping mane, she smiles nonetheless. “We’re just about finished,” she says to me, wringing her hair. She turns to Applejack. “Most of the smell is gone. Just give her a few normal baths and keep her away from any skunks.”
Apple Bloom runs up to Winona and Applejack. “Sure’s a lot better than before,” she says, giving a cautious sniff.
Like Fluttershy, Applejack is also soaked. There's not a dry spot on her hat. “Thanks for the help, Fluttershy.” Applejack turns to the dog that's been bathed and dried. “You hear that, Winona? No more chasin’ skunks from now on.”
The dog only lets out a happy bark.
But then it notices me and starts sprinting, only for the leash to keep it from going any further. Applejack hardly struggles. “Sheesh, what's the matter with you? Do ya need to go on another walk?”
“Um, we’ll just be going now,” Fluttershy says as we hurriedly leave.
“Thanks again, Fluttershy. And it was nice seeing you again, Goldie.”
“Bye Goldie!” Apple Bloom shouts as she waves goodbye. “Come back soon!”
I glance at her as we leave. “I will.”
We hear the distant barks of the dog as we leave. Fluttershy and I make it to the entrance of Sweet Apple Acres before she starts a conversation.
“So Goldie,” she begins, “did do you do anything interesting while we were busy?”
I shrug.
“Oh… Any interesting thoughts?”
I pause to think. “No apples…for dinner.”
She laughs, and I find it very therapeutic listening to her.
Maybe this is what she wanted. Maybe that shapeless identity of mine needs the catalyst of other ponies to define itself. I am distantly aware of the embryonic personality that lies within my fleshy outer shell—that fragile pink zygote that still has a ways to grow. It’s there, but it's underdeveloped.
“The Apple family was nice, right?” Fluttershy asks hopefully.
“Yes…” I say. “They were nice.”
She nods while grinning. “That's good to hear.”
My mind drifts towards Applejack’s family and then toward my own. A somber thought pops into my head.
Somewhere out there, there is a home and a family with a gaping hole shaped like me, and sometimes I wonder if there really is someone looking for me. They'll be calling my name and waiting for an answer. But, no one will ever answer because I've forgotten my own name, and they'll keep on waiting for the pony that’s long gone.
But being me is not all so bad.
I found something special in an unlikely place. From the mare who took care of me to the ponies who treated me kindly, they are fortunate to know the feeling of having a family. I watch as their roots take hold of mine and my dead branches grafts onto theirs. I've become a part of something, though not exactly a family but something close to one, and I've never felt more fortunate.
“Goldie?” Fluttershy asks once again.
“Yes, Fluttershy?” I answer.
A feathered wing falls on my shoulder. “Let's go home.”
Walking side-by-side with a damp pegasus, I go over an old mantra in my head and add a few changes: Apple Bloom has two older siblings, named Applejack and Big Macintosh, who grow apples on a farm called Sweet Apple Acres. Together, they live with their sweet old Granny and their little brown dog.
The memory of all these ponies is more vivid now, and I will try very hard to never forget them.