2. Making Hay
The causeway followed the old shoreline railbed: in fact, some dark stains showed where the ancient tracks had been. A few minutes’ walk should take him to the river.
Outside of gulls, terns, ducks, and an egret or two, Ben saw little sign of life: no rising thread of woodsmoke; no houses except a half-sunken brick ruin; no sound of any human activity. Were there any humans left at all, or was he just a lone monster, haunting the wilderness? The thought sent a shudder through his body.
A dip in the path, where some long-ago storm had washed the earth away, worried him: would he have to swim the gap? He wasn’t sure he could dog-paddle - pony-paddle - very well in this body.
Sure enough, there was a breach - and his heart jumped. A bridge - a bridge - crossed the gap. It was only a couple of logs with planks laid across them; but he gazed upon it as if it were a holy shrine.
Ben Hengst, bat-pony, was not alone in the universe.
Slowly, gingerly, as if it might vanish from under hoof, he stepped across onto the pathway again.
When he reached the area where the depot had once stood, he crossed over northward into the town. Again, not much to see except some crumbled ruins: but there was a narrow trail through the scrub that covered the old street. He peered at the packed dirt, and was almost convinced he could see some sign of hoofprints. Shod hoofprints. He turned west again toward the river.
The drawbridge had long since rusted away; but a few wooden pilings supported a dock of sorts. The river flowed unimpeded by highway overpasses or other obstructions, just as it had four hundred years before his own day.
He spotted something far upriver, moving slowly and deliberately in a familiar rhythm. Several minutes later, he could just make out the rise and fall of oars, and a figure bending to them. Very soon, he noticed the oarsman wasn’t human: it was a bright red pony with a white mane, its ears sticking out of a battered straw hat.
The scow was coming into hailing distance. Ben reflexively lifted one hoof to his mouth , and hollered “AHOY THERE!”: his voice seemed a bit younger than he remembered. The oarsman (oarspony, he corrected himself) lifted his head and craned to look.
“Ahoy yerself! What do ye want?”, came the reply.
“Could I get a lift somewhere?”
“Where to?”
Ben paused. He hadn’t really formed a clear plan: just keep walking until he reached civilization, or what passed for it here. “Anywhere there’s other peo- er, ponies.” His stomach began to growl: he hadn’t had breakfast yet, and he didn’t even know what was edible now.
There was a moment of awkward silence, as the other pony looked him over skeptically. “Goin’ down t’ marshes ’n’ cut some salt hay right now. Can ye manage a scythe?”
“I- I don’t know; but I can try. I just need to find somewhere I can get food and a place to sleep. I’ll be on my way to the next - er, - town as soon as I can. Could you help me, please?”
The other pony said nothing, but began to pull toward the dock. He ducked his head down into the boat, and came up with a coil of rope in his mouth. As he drifted closer, he shipped his oars, gave a toss of his head, and a loop spliced into the rope’s end settled over the upstream piling. Then, taking hold of the rope again with his teeth, he pulled the scow in, and wrapped the slack over a cleat in the stern. Turning around, he reached into the bow, and repeated the operation with the same easy skill.
“All right, hop in, young feller.” Ben stepped gingerly into the bow of the boat. His rescuer had a fringe of white beard under his muzzle, and pale blue eyes lined with wrinkles; on his haunch was a peculiar yellow marking, shaped like a sheaf of wheat. “Might as well get acquainted. Name’s Harvest Bounty: what’s yers, young’un?”
“Ben. Ben Hengst.”
“Odd name for a pony.” He looked Ben over appraisingly, noticing the torn T-shirt. “Mebbe ye batfolk do things different from us. Or are ye one of them - what was it - Newcomers?”
“Newcomers? Well, I just woke up here a couple of hours ago.”
“Aye, that’s it. Not many of ‘em come here. There was one arrived up the Pequot trail, ‘bout fifty year ago. A unicorn: didn’t seem quite right in the head t’me.” Harvest gave Ben another once-over. “But ye seem level-headed enough, far as I can see. Tell ye what: ye give me a hoof with that hay, and ye can get supper up t’ farm, and a bed fer the night. Mule London ain’t too far, and they’s probably more of you Newcomers down there. Deal?” He held out a hoof.
Ben extended his own, and touched Harvest’s tentatively: that seemed to be the pony equivalent of a handshake. “Deal.”
Harvest grinned, and picked up an earthen jug from the bottom of the scow, his hoof wedged into a large handle. “Best we have a drink on it. Ma’s best cider.” He pulled the cork out with his teeth, and laid it on the thwart beside him; then he raised the jug to his lips and tipped it up.
“Your mother’s still alive?” Ben blurted.
Harvest nearly spewed cider out of his nose. Laughing heartily, he wiped his lips, lowered the jug and set it down. “Heaven sakes, colt; I fergot ye were a greenhoof. Ma’s me wife Winesap: we been hitched for eighty years.” He shoved the jug over to Ben, who stuck his own hoof into the handle and took an awkward swig. It tasted like liquid sunshine, with a tart bite underneath.
“Eighty years?”, he gasped as he returned the jug; “Did you get married as a teenager?”
“I’ll be a hunderd ’n’ fifteen come August,” Harvest replied, “though I feel jest as spry as I was at eighty.” He corked the jug and put it back down; then he looked downriver. “Well, we ain’t gettin’ much done sittin’ here jawin’. Best get busy and hit the hay.” He chuckled at his own pun. “Cast off the bow, and I’ll get the stern line.”
Ben did his best to free the rope from its cleat and yank the splice off the piling, as his companion watched with dry amusement. Harvest made short work of the stern line, and settled down to his oars. Each handle had a loop of rope attached, through which he slipped his hooves, and he grasped the handles between hoof and pastern. A few strokes, and they were back in mid-river, heading toward the Sound.
The landscape opened up as they floated past the footings of the old railroad bridge: a wilderness of reeds and cat-tails, the air alive with shore birds. Occasionally, the serpentine head and neck of a cormorant broke the water’s surface, only to plunge back down a minute later. Neither of them said anything: Harvest was busy at the oars, and Ben was absorbed in thought. How long has it been since…? Why have humans turned into ponies? I’m not a farmer, or a blacksmith, or a potter, or anything practical: I’m a dreamer, really, and a sometimes actor. How am I going to make a living?
The scow finally scrunched to a stop on a muddy bank. A vast meadow of tall grass lay before them.
“Let’s haul ‘er up on shore and get to work.” Harvest grabbed the stern line, splashed into the shallows, and dragged the stern of the boat above the tide line. Ben did his best with the bow, although he suspected it would not meet his companion’s standards.
There were a pitchfork and two scythes lying in the stern. Harvest grabbed one, wedged its butt end under his right foreleg (his armpit, had he been human), and grasped a handle much like those on his oars. “Come on then, young ’un,” he said, stepping forward on three legs with deceptive ease.
Ben stared at the other scythe. He had always been left-hand - left-hoofed, and this might not be a good idea: but rather than inconvenience his host, he thrust the scythe under his armpit, grasped the handle, started forward -
And promptly buried his muzzle in the mud. It was sheer luck that he hadn’t slashed himself with that blade. The same might be said for Harvest, although for other reasons: he was laughing fit to bust, so much that tears were trickling down his face and dripping from his beard.
“All right, greenhoof,” he said when he had finally recovered his breath. “Ye were willin’ enough, and ye tried to keep yer word: I like t’ see that in a pony. Stow that scythe: I’ll do the cuttin’, and you pile it up in the boat.”
It was a weary afternoon’s work, as Harvest mowed down swathe after swathe, and Ben struggled to load forkful after forkful into the scow; his jaw and neck muscles protesting against the strain, and the sweat foaming on his flanks.
Finally, the work was done: they shared another draft of cider together, pushed the boat off shore, and started back upriver to home.
Well, Harvest’s home, anyway.