3. Harvest Home
The journey upriver was slower, of course: Harvest calmly and tirelessly rowing, Ben resting in the bow, a fragrant mountain of fresh hay in the stern. Occasionally an otter or muskrat would emerge from the bank and plunge into the stream with a splash; overhead, a lone hawk circled, whistling once or twice. The sun hung low in the west now; and a drowsy peace hung over everything.
A large pasture lay around the next bend, with a small flock of sheep grazing, and half a dozen black and white cows reclining in it: a lichen-crusted stone fence marked its boundary, and a cornfield lay beyond. At the top of a low hill stood a low, rambling frame house and barn; a lazy drift of smoke rose from the chimney.
Ben was roused by the distant sound of barking, when a pair of dogs came rushing toward them. Harvest called out, “Mikey! Tillie! Mind yer manners: we got a guest here!” The dogs fell silent, and sat down with lolling tongues and wagging tails.
They tied up at another dock, after Harvest maneuvered the scow stern-on to the riverbank and shipped the oars for the last time. A two- wheeled cart sat nearby. They both debarked, pausing to wash their muddy hooves in the river (and Ben his muddy muzzle as well). Harvest pulled the pitchfork from the boat and remarked, “Go on up, Ben, and introduce yerself: I’ll get this load into the barn.” He began pitching the hay into the cart.
Ben walked slowly up the dirt path to the house; the dogs followed quietly at his heels. A pale green mare with a yellow-and-orange mane and tail was weeding an herb garden in front of the main door. She wore a sort of apron over her chest and forelegs: probably to keep the dirt off, as she frequently kneeled down to uproot some invading sprout.
“Good evening, ma’am,” he began; “My name’s Ben Hengst, and I hope you’ll be kind enough to let me stay here for the night.”
The mare rose to her hooves, and brushed a bit of dirt off her apron. “Anypony Pa brings along is welcome: otherwise, he wouldn’t have brought ye.”
“Thank you, ma’am. Am I by any chance addressing Ms. Winesap?”
She giggled at the name. “Heavens, no: that’s Mother. My name’s Three Sisters.” She turned her flank, and he could see a complicated mark there: a cornstalk with a vine twined about it, and a pumpkin at its base. “Jest let me finish this row, and I’ll show ye in.”
Mikey and Tillie had been sniffing curiously around his legs: he hoped they wouldn’t start sniffing at his-
A male voice rang out from around the corner. “Sis, ye finished yet? Ma needs a hoof with supper!”
“Hold yer horses, Bumper Crop: we got a guest here!”
A young stallion wandered into view: brown, with his father’s white mane and tail, and a tiny beard as well. On his flank was a different mark: a basket overflowing with produce. He looked at Ben, and his eyes narrowed. “Guest? Why, that’s one o’ them dark-“
“You shut yer muzzle, Bump! Don’t matter what Fallow told ye: Pa invited him, and he’s our guest! Go argue with Pa, if ye’re so inclined!” The stallion backed off, abashed: but he still gave Ben a pointed look. Then he pulled the latch-string open, and retreated into the house.
“Sorry ye had to hear that, Ben,” Three Sisters remarked as the door slammed to. “Bump’s been like that ever since his little brother ran away. He and Fallow Field was tight as two peas in a pod; but Fallow - I don’t know - he jest soured somehow.” She cast her eyes down. “Got to talkin’ agin griffins, batfolk, and the like, and then he jest run off. Broke Pa’s heart, too.
“But don’t mind him. Ma’s got bathwater heatin’: you and Pa clean yourselves up, and we’ll have us a good supper. Go on in.”
Ben walked hesitantly up to the door, knocked with his hoof, and pulled the latch-string with his teeth. Inside, it looked much like an early Colonial house: leaded casement windows; a formal parlor on one side of the entrance hall; a "keeping room" on the other, with a loom and spinning wheel in the corner. Oddly enough, all the floors were packed dirt.
A doorway beyond led to the kitchen: a large kettle was already hanging over the fire there, the first wisps of steam rising from its spout; a couple of covered pots were also heating. Before the kitchen hearth sat a large copper tub, a couple of buckets of water, a cake of brown soap, and a brush.
A bustle was heard from the pantry beyond, and an older mare entered with a bundle of towels draped over her back. She was the same pale green as her daughter; but her mane and tail were a faded burgundy, streaked with white. She started slightly when she saw Ben. “Mercy sakes! Ye gave me a turn there: I didn’t know we had visitors.” She regarded him with the same shrewd humor as her husband. “What’s yer name, stranger?”
“Ben Hengst, ma’am; but you can call me just Ben.”
“Well, Jest Ben, I’m Winesap.” She laid the towels on the table nearby. Her mark, thus revealed, was a cross-cut apple, with the core and seeds forming a five pointed star, and a golden drop flowing from it. “Ye’ll be wantin’ a wash, by the look of ye. Pa, Sis, and Bump are busy bringin’ in the stock; so ye get first crack.”
“Oh, I don’t want to impose-“
“Nonsense. Now get that rag off and wash up.” Ben paused: how was he going to get his T-shirt over his wings? Winesap was already emptying the buckets into the tub, and going for the kettle.
“I- I’m not sure I can. You see, I didn’t have wings when I put it on, and-“
“Land alive, a Newcomer!” Her eyes brightened. “I know ye folks have some stories to tell. When I was a filly, they was a couple o’ ponies came into my pa’s tavern, one of ‘em a pegasus; and they talked about an Inner Net, and high-bred carts, and all sorts o’ things, and-“
She paused, and regained her composure. “But never ye mind. Let’s get that thing off of ye first.” She plucked a knife from off its rack, and advanced on him, the blade in her teeth. Ben stood frozen, while she deftly slit the back of the shirt, and its remnants collapsed at his hooves. Despite all his efforts at self-control, he couldn’t help shuddering a little afterwards.
Winesap then calmly took the kettle from the fire, and poured it into the tub. “That’ll take the chill off. I’ll fetch some more for the rest.” She retreated into the pantry, and he heard a door open and shut.
Ben climbed reluctantly into the tub, and sat down. He remembered Harvest’s prowess with oars and scythe, and grasped the brush between hoof and pastern. Okay: wet the brush, rub it on the soap, and scrub.
He was surprised at how flexible pony limbs were, compared to horses of his own world: he managed to scrub his own back, with only a few places he couldn’t reach. At last he climbed out of the tub. He had to resist the impulse to shake himself off like a dog: instead he grabbed a towel, flung it over himself, and rolled about until he was fairly dry.
Winesap returned with a full kettle, and hung it on the crane above the fire. “Ye look a sight better now, Jest Ben. They’s a guest room in the back wing: used to be Fallow’s, but- “ She broke off short, and gestured toward a doorway behind. “Well, lamps need lightin’; and supper needs fixin’: we’ll call ye when we’re ready.”
Ben took the hint, and headed through the door.