Spring Broke

by kudzuhaiku


Chapter 2

The Dales Delta train station wasn’t actually in Dales Delta. It existed outside of town, far outside of town, because one simply did not lay track in the middle of a marshy delta. Oh, one had laid track through a marshy delta, but that track had sank into the silt and the muck. The pony responsible for that debacle was very nearly fired—which is to say that he was almost shot out of a cannon and into the ocean by angry townsfolk, an act specifically warned against by the Party Cannon Mark VII, stating that live equine ammunition was not recommended by the manufacturer.

It was a sign of serendipitous fortune that ponies were inherently good: they left mattress tags alone and obeyed strongly worded warning labels. Most of the time. Here in Dales Delta, not looking both ways before one crossed the street could get one recorded on the public docket as an anarchist, a sad state of affairs indeed, but not quite as bad as being catalogued as a ‘track sinker.’

The air was salty, almost tangy, and Esmeralda was too caught up in sniffing to make anything resembling a fuss. Suspended from her father’s neck in her carrier, she made funny, adorable faces as she breathed in all of the new scents, all of which were altogether different than Canterlot.

“This is the part where I’d normally fly home,” Buttermilk said to Copperquick as she stood beside him, smiling. “We’ll have to find some other way. It’s the kind of walk that’ll stretch your legs, that’s for certain. My parents have their own little silt island. It’s not quite on the ocean, it’s a fair distance inland actually, and this whole place is spread out for about eighty miles or so in all directions. Maybe more by now. Looks like the place has grown since I left.”

Copperquick only heard about half of what she was saying because he was too busy looking at griffons, something he had never seen up close before. There were three of them here at the train station, standing about and waiting. These weren’t as large as he thought they would be, nor were they tawny and lionesque. One was black furred, another was greyish, or sooty, and the third was speckled.

“Griffons…”

“Yes, they live here with us, together but separate.” Buttermilk was filled with calm excitement and she brushed up against Copperquick, then rubbed against him in an almost feline manner. “Skyforge Pact. It goes back hundreds of years. They protect us from anything that might crawl out of the ocean or come oozing up out of the marsh. We let them live as hunter-gatherers on our lands. All of our crops, all of our farming, it attracts things they like to eat, like rats, which are a real problem here. Or would be, if the griffons didn’t keep their numbers thinned out.”

“Huh.” Copperquick looked down at the slight, slender mare beside him, gave some thought to everything she had said, and then turned his attention back to the trio of griffons.

“Not many unicorns live here,” Buttermilk remarked as she began to look about. “I’ve heard it said they don’t like the muck. So the griffons do a lot of fine, meticulous work that needs to be done with their marvellous, dexterous fingers. I like having them about, I grew up feeling safe because of them. They watch over us like hawks. I think it is a matter of pride for them, keeping us safe, but I can’t say for certain. They’re quiet, grumpy sorts that keep to themselves.”

“This is something you don’t learn about in school.” Copperquick sniffed and could smell something delicious, something fried. The train station had a cafe on premises and while he was certainly feeling peckish, he was also almost broke. “Stuff like this, this is what Equestria is really all about, but nopony ever talks about it. This is why I came here.”

“It’s easy to talk about the bad stuff, because it is noticeable, Mister Quick. In my experience, ponies get riled when something is broken, and are perfectly content to go about their business when everything is some semblance of normal. The Skyforge Pact, that is commonplace… it isn’t seen as special or even anything out of the ordinary. It is something we grow up with.”

“Yeah, but it’s meaningful…” Copperquick’s words trailed off and he stood flicking his tail in the breeze while his daughter cooed and clopped her tiny hooves together. “Me myself, I’ve been so focused on all of the rotten stuff in my life that I think I might have forgotten why I came to this country. I’ve become so resentful of the bureaucracy and everything that’s gone wrong in my life that I think I stopped seeing the good. I feel bad, Miss Oddbody.”

Overhead, seagulls circled. Everpresent optimistic opportunists, the seagulls gathered in places where easy pickings seemed plentiful. Nearby, goods from the train were being stacked within a covered depot, where they would be loaded onto a boat and floated down a canal or a waterway. Steam powered flat-bottomed ships went chugging past in the distance, navigating the shallow waters, with some coming to the cargo hub depot.

This was so unlike Canterlot that Copperquick was flummoxed. He had never seen anything quite like it. Canterlot had a sort of early era modernity, a pleasant mix of old and new. Everything was tasteful, fashionable, and clean. Manehattan was thoroughly modern, and Ponyville was like taking a trip back in time. This place, Dales Delta, was like being transported to another land. Like Ponyville, it was like rewinding the clocks, but steamships belching out clouds of black soot announced that this area was industrialising, something that Ponyville lacked.

Like so many other places in Equestria, this place had its own unique feel.

With his mouth hanging agape, Copperquick watched a pegasus push a boat shaped like an enormous green leaf over the water, an ingenious method of travel if ever there was one. Another boat was powered by an earth pony running within a paddle wheel. Reaching up with one hoof, Buttermilk closed his mouth with a gentle nudge and feeling her soft touch, he glanced down at her with wide, expressive eyes.

“You look like a tourist. Stop that.”

Blushing, Copperquick let out a sheepish chuckle, but had nothing to say.

“Moomy and Daddums don’t even know that we are coming. I would imagine that they’ll be quite surprised. Moomy always liked surprises. Daddums on the other hoof… um…” Shuffling on her hooves, Buttermilk stood there umming to herself for a time, and something about her expressiveness made it impossible for Copperquick to turn away.

Stretching out his neck, he surprised her with a quick peck on the cheek, which left her flustered, blushing, and umming even harder. Esmeralda, glad to be near Buttermilk, cooed and demanded her fair share of affection. Strands of the bespectacled pegasus’ mane fell out of her bun while she giggled and she began to tap her left front hoof against the wooden platform. Emboldened, Copperquick leaned in again, pressed his muzzle up against the back of her ear, and chuffed.

Squealing, Buttermilk darted away with her ears pinned back and her tail flagged high.

Entranced, Copperquick watched every move she made, the way her corded muscles rippled beneath her silken hide and how the sunlight glistened upon her well preened feathers. Her ears had a pinkness to them and the bright sun made them almost transparent near the tips. More of her mane had worked free from her bun and the loose tendrils offered him an enticing wave in the breeze, beckoning him to come closer, to give chase.

Chuffing behind Buttermilk’s ear gave her chills—tingles—and she had confessed this to him in a sweaty, humid embrace, whispering her words into his flickering, twitching ear while clinging to his neck. There were things he wanted to do with her—to do to her—dreadful things—awful things—sinful things of an unforgivable nature—unspeakable acts such as being a clingy, clutchy spooner on hot, sticky nights in a bed with flannel sheets, in a room with no climate control.

It was the worst thing he could think about doing to her.

Their relationship was defined by shared misery. Sleep deprivation. Stress. The unspeakable cruelty of Mister Blancmange. Strained eardrums. Endless schoolwork. It was their lot in life to suffer, and so suffer they did, together, and it seemed that the only joy to be found was in the random acts of kindness they did for one another. But spooning in a sweltering room, laying atop clinging, sweat-soaked sheets would be the sort of misery that was sure to bring them even closer together.

Copperquick was starting to think that he wanted to spend the rest of his life in shared suffering with Buttermilk Oddbody. But first, he had to meet her parents. Esmeralda would have to be explained. Then, if everything went as planned, there would be heaps of misery, enough to go around, as he bore the shame of being a single father that had a tryst with a dancer. Eyebrows would be raised. Silent accusations would be made. Judgmental narrowing of the eyes would take place, and he would endure almost a week of absolute torture, if everything went as expected.

At the end of it all, he would still have Buttermilk, he was pretty confident about that, and he would have his daughter, who seemed to delight in spitting up on him at the most inopportune moments. Who knew that warm dribbles of spit up could be so special? So treasured? Being in love had mutated his brain, warped his perceptions, he had stopped worrying and learned to love the barf. Esmeralda was special and could do no wrong. Love, the cruel tyrant that it was, had made him blind and left him as a slave, a willing slave that left his head bowed in humble supplication to his daughter’s whims.

Buttermilk batted her eyelashes behind her thick, square spectacles and said, “Come home with me, Copper.”

“Right. How are we getting there?” Something about the salty air cleared Copperquick’s head and left him feeling invigourated… or even frisky.

“Well, to start with, we’ll walk, and then see what comes up along the way. Maybe we can hitch a ride.” Like molasses left out in February, a slow smile spread over Buttermilk’s face, and she let out a breathy little whinny that sounded an awful lot like happiness. She shifted her weight a bit, her folded wings flapped against her sides, and somehow, she managed to be beautiful without awareness of it or even trying—she just was. “I need some Celestial Glory tea. I feel a bit lethargic. I am in sore need of a pick-me-up.”

“Perhaps when you get home…”

“Yeah! Perhaps when I get home!”


The Kissing Moon River was wide, slow, and deep, fed by thousands of tributaries. A bit muddy and rather more brown than clear and blue, it flowed through the delta and left behind deposits of rich, fertile soil. This, combined with the love and care of earth ponies, created a lush, green place, full of life, the sort of breadbasket that could feed a nation.

Copperquick walked along a gravel path atop a packed-earth berm, following after Buttermilk, who led the way. His saddlebags slapped his sides a bit—painful and annoying—and Esmeralda was almost asleep in her sling, her head nodding with each step. This almost felt like main street, only instead of a road, there was flowing water. This sliver of an island had a great many shops with alluring window displays that hoped to lure in tourists from the train station and there were quaint cafes tucked in between the multi-story brick buildings that served as both stores and residences for the merchants.

Like Canterlot, ponies wore clothing here, some of them at least. Unlike Canterlot, these ponies weren’t particularly fancy. A top hat could be seen here and there, but these were working ponies that descended from hearty stock. Clothing here was practical and comfortable, but also somewhat muddy, a bit sooty, and left a bit worn from hard work.

A tapping hammer distracted him and Copperquick turned his head to see a blacksmith practicing his trade on a flat bottom skiff that bobbed in the current of the flowing river. Never had he seen such a thing, nor would he have ever thought such a thing was practical. The big burly earth pony hammered out what appeared to be a metal hinge, perhaps for some door or a gate. The idea of piloting your entire place of work right up to where you needed to be fascinated Copperquick and he began to see the appeal of living on the water.

For a brief, brief moment, Copperquick entertained the amusing notion of dropping out of school to become a boat captain in a place like this one, but was distracted by a low flying airship passing overhead. It was little more than a long canoe suspended from a crude nacelle and the craft was towed by a stout looking pegasus. On the side of the canoe was a sign: ‘Cousteau’s Crustacé Compagnie.’ Something about the sign bothered him, it didn’t read quite right, but that probably didn’t matter. The bright red crab on the sign said everything that needed to be said without the words.

“I think I just found a ride home,” Buttermilk remarked and her wings unfurled. In an eyeblink, she was airborne and buzzing away like the world’s fuzziest-wuzziest mosquito. “Ripple Rusher! Hey, Ripple Rusher, how have you been? It’s been so long! Hi!”

Copperquick desperately wanted her to drink her fill from him.