5. To Market, To Market
Ben wandered through a cityscape devoid of people. The buildings, however, were as he remembered them from his dreams: the clatter of his hooves echoed for blocks.
Funny thing, though: everything seemed clearer than it had before. The details of architecture remained constant; and the words on the signs, although not quite comprehensible, were distinct in every stroke. A ragged, gently undulating crack in the sidewalk seemed to lead him on.
At the top of a hill stood the apartment building where he had lived several decades before. He climbed up the fire stairs in the back, and entered the floor below his own. The large, ornate public room was empty, except for its tables and chairs; so he turned to the small stairway that led up to his own level.
The apartment was barely furnished, except for the carpet and couches in the front room: the walls and ceiling were rather shabby, with cracks and missing plaster. Had he left anything behind in his old room? The door was open, and he walked in.
An unmade bed; a dresser; an armchair and a nightstand: that was all, except for a scrap of paper lying on his pillow. On it, in letters more vivid than he had seen before, was written:
FOCUS, DUMMY!
Damn! He shouldn’t have come up here: this was old, dead history; and there was something important he had to do in the present. He glided down the fire stairs, and back to the street. He galloped towards a square downtown, where a statue of a winged unicorn -
A rooster’s crow tore his dream to shreds.
Dawn light came through the partially opened casement; and sure enough, a knock on his door. “Ben? You up yet? Get some breakfast, ‘cause Pa’s leavin’ in a couple hours!”
A medley of aromas drifted in from the kitchen: baking, stewing, and - was that eggs frying? He rolled out of bed and onto his hooves, despite a slight headache, and hurried in to breakfast.
Most of the household were already busy at the table: there were mugs of cider - much tempered with water, this time - and trenchers of corn porridge, sweetened with fresh milk, honey, and dried berries. But the crowning glory were omelets, laden with peppers, onions, and mushrooms - and cheese.
The trenchers and mugs were cleared away; and a pot of tea (mint, with a touch of chamomile and other herbs) was doled out into earthen cups. These were sipped more slowly, each pony cradling the cup between their forehooves. Ben savored his tea, and reflected on last night’s dream - and the mission to which he had so rashly committed. Had it been a drunken impulse: or was something deeper at work?
A feeling of congestion in his bowels seemed more important than dreams right now: he excused himself, bolted out the side door of the kitchen, and found the privy out back, near the woodshed.
A few minutes later (the less said of which, the better), he emerged into the side yard, where chickens were hunting for worms and bits of grain. Winesap was waiting for him, with some canvas draped over her back.
“Thought ye might need somethin’ for travelin’, Ben,” she remarked. “Made these saddlebags for Bump, years ago: but you might have some use for ‘em now. Me ’n’ Pa put a little somethin’ in ‘em to keep ye for a while.” She winked slyly. “Don’t tell Bump, though.” He bowed his head as she slipped them over. They were a little uncomfortable over his wings, so he wiggled them out and settled them over the bags. A strap with a simple ring buckle draped over his chest, and was easily adjusted with a tug of his teeth.
Harvest and Bumper were out front, harnessed to a large wagon, laden with baskets of fruit and vegetables; there was a bundle of fancy woolen fabrics as well.
“There ye are, son,” Harvest said heartily. “Time’s a-wastin’, and the cargo ain’t gettin’ any fresher. Best be on our way now.” They headed down to a path near the riverbank, and trotted southward.
Their way led them past more fields of corn, wheat, and oats, with the “hired hooves” already at work; beyond lay patches of woodland, loud with birdsong. In the distance, the chimney smoke from a neighboring farm could just be seen. Harvest and Bump kept up a steady pace, while Ben trotted alongside, and hoped for the best.
They soon reached the main road, which followed the old I-95: its concrete and asphalt had been covered with a more pony-friendly layer of earth, and plank bridges had been built on the surviving footings of their predecessors. The dust was slightly irritating, as were the flies; but the travelers simply snorted and flicked their tails.
An hour or so later, they spotted another couple of wagons a few hundred yards ahead. “Looks like Cornsilk ’n’ Turnip Top ‘re off t’ market, too,” Harvest commented. “Nephews o’ mine,” he said to Ben. "Let’s ketch up, and chew the clover together, shall we? HI THERE!,” he shouted, and the other wagons came to a stop. They freshened their pace, while Ben struggled to keep up.
By the time they reached their companions, he was puffing and blowing; Harvest and Bumper had barely broken a sweat. Fortunately, one of the other ponies, a white stallion with a green mane and tail - Turnip Top, apparently, by the mark on his flank - had shrugged off his collar, and was rooting around in the back of his wagon. While Harvest unhitched himself, he pulled out a large jug, and offered it to the company. It wasn’t cider, but a slightly vinegary brew, flavored with herbs and a touch of honey: “switchel”, they called it.
Whatever it was, Ben was grateful for the refreshment, as for the welcome pause while Harvest chatted with his nephews. Their conversation revolved around the weather, the quality of their harvests, the health of family members, the price of crops, and other matters, while the morning sun rose higher in the sky. Finally, they nodded, stepped back into harness, and headed on together.
After a couple of hours, they reached the top of a rise, and saw the Thames below, busy with traffic. The road curved off to the left, beside the crumbling remains of the old bridge; to the south, on this side of the river, Ben saw a thick stand of forest, with the top of a stone obelisk looming over it: old Fort Griswold, and the Groton Monument. On the far bank, a few familiar buildings remained intact: a couple of churches (damn, he remembered performing in one of them), the old custom house, and, to his great surprise, the Shaw mansion. The rest of the city was made up of low brick and frame buildings, many of them built upon the lower storeys of the old city.
Down at the riverbank stood the ferry dock, where lay a broad-beamed, flat-bottomed boat. Two large paddle wheels were housed on either side, each with a burly stallion standing beside them: another pony waited at a large steering oar. The sign at the dock read:
PONIES - 1 COPPER (Foals under 5 free)
WAGONS - 5 COPPERS
Harvest and his nephews paid their fare to a unicorn at the gate, plus a copper for Ben, and joined the passengers on deck. When the boat was full, the cry came to cast off: ropes were thrown; the two stallions planted their forehooves on the deck and began to work the treadles with their hind legs; the helmspony grabbed the oar, and off they churned across the river.