4. Harvest Home, Part 2
A hallway led off from the kitchen, with rooms on either side. The summer twilight was dim; but his eyes soon adjusted to the light. Farther down, on his right, Ben saw one that showed no signs of recent occupancy: a spartan chamber, with only a bedstead and a washstand. This, he guessed, had been Fallow Field’s room.
To his left, a glimmer of light and motion caught his eye: a small looking-glass hung in the hall. This was his first clear glimpse of his own reflection.
The face he saw was grey, with wide-set amber eyes (he looked almost crosseyed, focusing on the mirror); a short muzzle, with two small fangs sticking out on either side; a faint black scruff of a beard, instead of the grey shag he had before. Above a black mane with a white stripe sat two tufted ears. Frankly, he looked like an equine version of a college student: he must have lost nearly forty years since yesterday.
Okay, this is my face now. Get used to it. He turned and entered the bedroom: not much there, except a covered chamberpot he hadn’t noticed before, under the bedstead. A patterned woolen coverlet lay over the bed: the woven legend W.S. - 317 was visible in one corner.
Ben partially shut the chamber door, and lay down upon the bed: the ropes under the mattress creaked slightly beneath him. The day’s exertions had left him weary, and the bath had relaxed him: best to wait until he was called to supper.
He drifted for a bit between waking and sleep: the raised voices in the kitchen beyond were irritating, but unimportant. He thought he saw the mysterious winged unicorn of his last dream, and tried to-
A knock on the door sent him awake, heart pounding. “Ben? Supper’s ready: come on!”
He roused himself, tumbled off the bed, and struggled to his hooves. A glow of candlelight greeted him from the kitchen, and he followed Three Sisters in.
The great table had been moved to the center of the floor, with low benches on either side: a couple of stools stood at each end, with Harvest standing behind one. Winesap was busily doling out food into wooden bowls; Three Sisters was doing likewise, and setting mugs of cider at each place. Bumper Crop stood silently by, glancing darkly at the new guest; and a couple of other ponies (“hired hooves”, Ben supposed they were called) waited patiently.
At Harvest’s nod, they all took a seat; save for the mares, who set all the bowls on the table, and then sat down. All ponies bowed their heads, so Ben did likewise.
Winesap spoke the grace:
“Sun and rain and mother Earth,
Let all ponies know your worth.
While we here travail and toil,
We are nourished by your soil.
From Earth we come, to Earth we go:
Heav’n and Earth ordain it so.”
To which all responded, “Amen.”
They fell to the first course, which was a salad of lettuce, clover, and fescue, enlivened by carrots and cucumbers, and flavored with cider vinegar. Then there was a stew of corn, beans, and squash: Ben could taste some sea salt, and a bit of chili pepper. Finally, Winesap brought out a strawberry-rhubarb pie, sweetened with honey.
The meal ended, everypony rose and went off to bed: Harvest and Winesap remained, and gestured Ben to sit down again.
When they were alone, Winesap refilled all three mugs. Harvest cleared his throat.
“We hear batfolk like yerself have some power over dreams.” He pushed Ben's mug toward his guest. “Now I know ye’re a Newcomer and a tenderhoof; but ye’re the best chance we have of gettin’
Fallow home.”
Ben was rather fuddled with cider already; but he drank it anyway. “I’ll try,” he said: “I’m not sherry - not very sure that I can do anything, but I’ll try.” He paused. “Why dirt floors?” The question came out of nowhere, as far as he knew.
Harvest chuckled. “Grandpa built this place, most of it. He said a pony’s hooves had t’keep in touch with the Earth: that’s our strength. But let me tell ye jest what happened with Fallow.”
“It was about five year ago, when we went down to market in Mule London. They was a couple o’ ponies hangin’ round dressed in robes: I didn’t like the look of ‘em, I tell ye. Me and Bumper was busy unloadin’ the cart and settin’ up the stall; and when we turned around agin, Fallow’d wandered off.
“Now Bump was ‘bout to rush out after him; but I told him Fallow was a clever colt, and old enough t’ look out fer himself.” Harvest paused, and looked Ben in the eye. “He’d be about yer age now: he was kinda weedy, and a bit of a dreamer. I guess you sorta reminded me o' him: which may be part o’ why I picked ye up.” He sighed, and looked pensively at his mug.
“Anyhow, he did come back afore the market was over; but he didn’t seem quite right - a little too quiet. A couple days later, he said he’d been invited to a ‘fellowship meetin’ ‘, as he called it. It was at the Farmers’ Hall, jest upriver; so we didn’t see any harm in it.
“Fallow came home pretty late; and they was a light in his eyes I hadn’t seen afore. We asked him how the meetin’ went, but he jest shrugged and said it was okay. We kept some supper for him; but he said he’d already et up at the Hall, and headed t’ bed.
“He was mighty quiet the next day, but did his chores all right. Then a couple weeks later, he went off to another meetin’; and when we asked him agin, afterwards, he got mighty short with us: said it was none of our business. Well, that fired me up, and we laid down the law as how them ‘meetin’s’ was over, far as he was concerned.
“He didn’t say nothin’ the next day, nor the day after that: but one day in the field, we saw a griffin flyin’ overhead with a basket o’ fish, and Fallow jest got madder 'n a nest o' hornets. He said they was ‘unnatural’, and ‘abominations’, and how ponies ‘d never be safe until they was all gone: griffins, dragons, changelin’s… even batfolk, beggin’ yer pardon. He claimed that was th’ only way we could ‘return to th’ image of God’.”
Harvest took another swig of cider. “I told him in no un-certain terms, that he wasn’t too old for me t’ take a switch t’ him; but he jest spat out a curse and trotted home.
“When we’d finished our work in the field, I went to speak t’ him, but he was long gone. We galloped up t’ the Hall, and they was nopony there: we asked around the neighborin’ farms, and they hadn’t seen him.
“Ma was in tears, and I weren’t too far behind. We ain’t heard a peep ‘bout Fallow since then. He was our last and youngest: most the other ones got hitched, and moved to new land. I had hoped he ’n’ Bump would run the farm after I pass on. Maybe - maybe, ye could track him down in dreams, and convince him to come back?”
The naked yearning both old ponies radiated was too much for Ben’s confused senses. He wanted to help, but how could he? He’d grown up in relative comfort and privilege: his chief mission before had been to entertain an audience: was he fit to rescue another soul?. He was deathly afraid of disappointing his hosts, who had shown him such kindness; yet the task seemed insurmountable.
You’re here to stay. Even if you fail at this, you’ll have tried: which is more than you can say for yourself otherwise. Ben gathered up his faltering strength, and rose to his hooves.
“All right, I’ll try. I’m probably going to screw up, but I’ll try.” Harvest and Winesap both wrapped their hooves around him in a hug: he hadn’t felt such loving warmth in ages.
“Bless ye, Ben,” the old stallion said quietly. He roused himself again, and remarked, “Well we’d best be off to bed: it’s market day tomorra, and we need t’ get an early start. Get as much sleep as ye can, now.” He retreated back to the hall,
Winesap began extinguishing the candles; and Ben, apprehensively and somewhat unsteadily, went off to bed.