6. Admissions
The ferry finally tied up at the wharf, and all disembarked just below Bank Street: the stallions at the wheels moved casually to the other side of their treadles, and the helmspony carried the steering oar to the other end of the vessel. Ben tagged along with the others toward the market square, under the old Soldiers’ and Sailors’ Monument. There Harvest, Bump, and the nephews began setting up their stalls, while Ben observed the scene.
Around the square were shopfronts of all sorts: printers, pewterers, bakers, and taverns stood cheek by jowl; the sidewalks in front had streetlamps - honest-to-god streetlamps. His eye, however, was caught by a placard reading ARRIVALS, and pointing toward the church he had seen before.
He turned to Harvest, who was laying out the woolens on a table. “Well, I guess this is where we part ways,” he said with a cheerfulness he did not feel. “I’ll try my best to find Fallow and get him back: I hope it’ll be sooner rather than later.”
Harvest gave Ben a kindly look. “Ye promised, and that’s all we need. Heavens’ll look after ye, I know.” They touched hooves once more, and Ben plodded up the street to the church.
It was much as he remembered, although rather run down. The original doors had been replaced long ago, and broken panes in the windows had been patched over. A side door stood open, so he entered hesitantly.
“Hello?” His voice echoed through the sanctuary: the pews were long gone, as was the carpeting. Some scaffolding and a pile of timbers showed that repairs were still being made, though. “Anyone there? I’m new here, and it says “Arrivals”, so I thought -"
A pleasant, matronly voice answered from the back hall. “Hello! Come on in: I’ve been busy with the accounts, and didn’t hear you at first.” A yellow unicorn mare with a blue mane peered into the church, and gestured with her head towards the back. Ben walked up the side aisle and followed her in.
“Pardon us if we’re a bit messy, but the roof beams need work. The carpenters have left for lunch with everypony else, and I’m holding down the fort, so to speak. The last few years have been rather lean, as far as arrivals have been concerned.” She smiled apologetically., as they entered a small office. “I’m Welcome Wagon, by the way: what’s your name, sir?”
“Ben. Ben Hengst.” She levitated a rather large book over to a desk, where a quill stood in an inkwell. The quill then rose in the air, surrounded by a golden glow, and scribbled his name on the page.
“Age?”
He paused for a moment. “Um: I was in my fifties a few days ago, but now…”
She smiled once more. “From your looks, I’d say about twenty.” The pen scribbled again. “Place of arrival?”
“Mystic: I used to live there.”
“How odd! We haven’t had any arrivals from there for at least fifty years; still less a thestral. Still, there’s always a first time.” Scribble. “Occupation?”
Ben paused a little longer this time. ”I used to volunteer at the Seaport library: but, other than that, and local theater, I’d have to call myself ‘self-unemployed’.” He grinned wryly.
“Well, they do need some helping hooves over at the Library.” Scribble, scribble. “Have you eaten yet?”
“I had breakfast this morning with some farm ponies: they brought me here. As for lunch -“ He remembered the saddlebags, and stuck his muzzle in one side to check. There was a package wrapped in flatbread. “Well, I guess I’m okay for that.” He pulled it out, and bit in: clover, lettuce, tomato, and cheese. Not bad.
“All right, Mr. Hengst,” Welcome said. “I’ll check up at the Library. Finish your lunch, and we’ll see what Stacks has to say.” She walked off down the hall, and left him to munch and think.
A library job isn’t too bad, I suppose: time at least to do a bit of research as well. I hope the pay is enough to live on, though. On a hunch, Ben checked the other saddlebag, and drew out a small sack: inside were a hoof-full of silver coins. Oh, he realized. That’s why they didn’t want me to say anything to Bumper Crop…
Hoofsteps clattered in the hall, and he dropped the purse back into his bag. Welcome Wagon returned, wearing a small flowered hat. “All ready, Mr. Hengst? Let’s pay a visit.”
They crossed the street, and started uphill. Out of the corner of his eye, Ben spotted two figures lurking in a nearby alley: ponies in long, hooded grey robes. They glanced at him, and murmured to each other; then they hurried off into a back lane.
A few blocks later, they came to the Library: another old survivor, squat, grey, and Romanesque. On the hill above, where the ancient courthouse had stood, was a low brick building, with a statue of a donkey in front of it.
The Library was dim and cool inside, a welcome change from the summer heat. Another unicorn - an old, blue-green stallion with a grey mane - stood behind the front desk. Welcome Wagon made a little curtsy, and he nodded back.
“Mr. Stacks,” she began; “I hear you have an opening for an assistant. By a fortunate circumstance, this young pony used to work in a library before he arrived.” She turned to Ben. “May I present Mr. Hengst.”
Ben gave a little bow: Stacks stood silent, with a curious expression on his face. Was there something wrong?
“Hengst… Hengst…,” he muttered absently, and peered in Ben’s face; then his eyes lit up. “Ben? Good to see you again! I should have known you’d turn up at a library.” He paused. “Phil O’Donnel: remember me?”
“Remember? I just saw you a few days ago at the Seaport…” Oh. Oh. It took Ben a moment to realize what he had said. “When did you come over, then?”
Phil - Stacks - grew pensive. “It’s been about sixty-five years: I arrived as a youngster, like you are now. They’d already salvaged much of the Seaport library long ago; and I offered my help in cataloging and conserving the contents. They’re in the vaults now, protected by a stasis spell.
“But first, let’s get you settled in. As a thestral, you’ll probably be up late; so how does a night position suit you? It’s basically security work; but you can do some filing and other chores. It’s only about two silver a week, but the Arrivals Aid Society can supplement that until you get on your hooves. Deal?”
“Deal.” They touched hooves. “You start tomorrow at six p.m. Meanwhile, Welcome,” he nodded to Ms. Wagon, ”will get you registered at Town Hall and fixed up with a place to stay. Till then.”
“Till then.”