“We’re gonna be fine, now,” said the wagon’s driver, pulling his fares along by his hooked harness.
It was a windy night over vast stretches of nothing but sand and dust, hardly any clear speck of green in the violet sky. Towering cliffs and rocky spires conquered the setting, casting shadows over cold areas where tents lay abandoned and unchecked by fire pits stamped out long ago.
“Look over there!” he yelled, stopping a bit to hold on to his hat against the gale, to then direct his passengers’ attention with his gaze.
True enough, over there stretched out Appleloosa bright against the night. A train stood idle by the station, its stately figure clearly visible by the lights cast on it. They could see the other lights, too, emanating from town.
A filly trotted to the front of the halted wagon. “Braeburn, how long will we stay there?”
The driver hung his head low, averting her look. “I don’t know, little one. Hopefully not too long moving up. Just keep hoping and we’ll be fine.”
The filly became misty-eyed, trotted to the back and sat alone in that overloaded wagon.
Braeburn galloped on, approaching town.
“It’s good you’re back here safe an’ sound,” the sheriff said as he pulled Braeburn up onto the station’s platform, after which he shook hooves with him.
The both of them turned their heads to watch the train in maintenance, blocking a good chunk of the Appleloosan view. Tarnished with black soot, laborers wiped the train clean with more heaving bags of coal and wood.
“How’s it?” asked the sheriff. “Other than one over-excited stallion, that is—“ to which he added a knowing smile.
Braeburn laughed a little, looking towards the few homesteads there. “Well, Silverstar, I’m takin’ him on his word. I bet he’s a pony who just leaps without lookin’—not one of them, but cer’ainly could do better.” He paused, letting the whistle of the train explode to the sky with swirling steam and smoke. They saw the ponies on the engine grabbing as much steam as they could into their jars—and, Braeburn asked, “Is he?”
The sheriff fixed up his badge on his vest. “Well, much o’ this town’s unlike you today. We’re keepin’ him on probation.” Silent for a while. “I’ve assigned somepony to watch over him until he gets called back farther South. You think we could…?”
“Could what?”
Silverstar looked at those houses, looked back at Braeburn. “Do somethin’ more about him? From the looks of it, he’s itchin’ to get up an’ get goin’ up the ladder, and that ain’t no good.”
Braeburn nodded, slightly flinched. Another whistle blew by, though they did not cover their ears. “I’ve talked with ‘is partners there, and they say he’s always been like that—wanting somethin’ more than what he’s got. Gives him the drive to go, but what if he doesn’t stop? That’s what they’re sayin’...but, I'm givin' him benefit of the doubt.”
The ponies on train’s engine inspected their jars of smoke, trading this and that jar with each other and commenting on their ever-changing shapes, discussing smokescreens and air-based weaponry with phrases like “hot air guns”.
“In other news,” the sheriff began anew “how’s the rest? Any late word from Choctown?”
Braeburn took a step forward, closer to the platform’s edge like a thoughtful pony. “They’re still holdin’ on last I heard ‘bout five or six hours ago. They’re gettin’ reinforcements from our Dragon Lands site, but we’re not gettin’ any help from the dragons themselves.”
The sheriff took his hat off, dismayed. “There’s that. Poor them. We better hope they burn down everythin’ before they capture all.”
Braeburn took his hat off as well, putting it to his vested chest. He heaved a weighty groan. “Yeah, sheriff. I hope they do.”
Braeburn trotted to a house by the wayside, its lights still on. He could hear the noise happening inside—hollers and guffaws, smacks and slams, chinks of coins gushing over to the table.
“You’re bluffin’ me, mate!”
“Nah, nah! You got a real good hoof up in yer’ sleeves!”
“I say five bits and discounts on the cider for the next two days!”
Braeburn reached the door, pried it open just enough so he could see what was going on.
In that seedy living room of idle pianos and crisp apple cider, a group of ponies huddled about one big table; on it, under the glow of several lanterns hanging on several ropes, lay dozens of poker cards with hearts and diamonds and spades and clovers souped up together in this hurly-burly of a game. At the center of the table was gathered a paltry sum of bits, surely not enough to break fifty.
Now, tension. Everyone hushed as the last two players standing put down their cards.
“Straight flush. I keep everythin’!”
Howls, squabbles; mugs thrown to the ground, tainting the floor with spoiled cider.
Braeburn gulped, slowly reeled his head back out the door.
Amid the chaos—amid the shuffling of cards on the table and the shuffling of ponies within the room—someone looked at him. Her face lit up and she went to the door, not fazed by the game's rowdy crowd stomping and crazing.
“It’s you!” the mare whispered, trotting outside and quietly closing the door, now standing in that cool outside night.
Braeburn bowed a little to her. “Yeah, it’s—“
“Ah! Not yet!”
She raised a hoof, holding it between his eyes.
“Trust me?” the mare challenged, gazing upon him with wary eyes.
“Certainly do, Cornflower,” he replied, smiling.
She put on a hat of her own. “I got the keys.” Pointed at her fluffy desert-colored mane. “Let’s get moving.”
Rounding the house, Braeburn and Cornflower entered a sizable fenced backyard which held nothing but some dry weeds, some barrels marked with the word “cider”, and a wooden shed. It also served as the backyard for about three stores on the main road, justifying the backyard’s rather huge size.
Trotting past the clear sounds of hoofsteps and creaky wagon wheels from the street beyond the fence, they went to the shed, shifting their eyes here and there.
She opened the door.
Dust shot out of it, smothering them into a coughing fit. Then, when that settled, they beheld what remained—a dingy, hemmed in space where various tools and equipment hung from the racks and hooks: saws, hammers, paint cans and rollers, screwdrivers, wrenches, rulers, plumb bobs, visors, crowbars, pliers, among other things.
Cornflower looked down at the floor. Much dust covered it.
She rubbed it with her hoof, kicking up more dust into the air. She coughed with him, Braeburn sneezing once or twice, eyes becoming irritatingly red. Then, she tapped on it.
A metal clink!
She grabbed a match from a cup on the shelf, struck it against the wall, and, with a little flame, lit up the shed.
On the floor, a wooden cellar door with two keyholes on it.
Cornflower grabbed the keys from her mane, hoofed one to Braeburn. “Ready?”
He gave her another calm smile. “Ready when you are.”
The two held the keys with their mouths, bent down to the door, and placed the keys inside.
Turned the keys.
Snap!
Cornflower took the door handle and swung the hatch open, revealing a long and dark stairway down. Facing Braeburn: “I’ll be here again in thirty minutes. You better be there when I come back! Don’t wanna be sleepin’ in some dusty ol’ hay bale, right?”
“We’re all sleepin’ on hay bales anyway!” retorted Braeburn with a sneer before he trotted down the stairs.
Braeburn went down that lengthy flight of stairs. After that, he was comforted with a plethora of lights—not the best lights for they were mere candles and kerosene lanterns, but they were a sight for sore eyes after a perilous jog in the dark where one misstep could spell a minor injury.
He came upon a spacious hay-floored area host to a variety of activities and functions. Decorated with bales of hay, it was a nice gathering hub for the ponies in Appleloosa. At the end of the room was the open kitchen where a few impromptu cooks whipped up a variety of apple dishes—apple pies, apple fritters, apple cakes, apple muffins, apple turnovers, apple leftovers. Such a limited menu might seem alienating to some, but that was the menu, and no one would want to air a contrarian opinion—even if they did want to protest, they would be incentivized not to by the big sign nailed to the wall: “Don’t like our apples? Don’t eat!”
Under this looming threat of slow and steady starvation, the ponies at the mess hall ate their apples and liked them whether they liked it or not. On the plus side, the cooks also served apple cider which was a great boon to the tired worker wearing a straw hat on his oily head.
There was more to this room than dining, though. On the side was a mini-concert held and maintained by a lone performer—a “busker” in other times. Set up with not a single speaker nor microphone, he captivated his meager audience with the sole and hollow strums of his old and battered guitar, with his guttural howls stringing their minds along a blue path of lyrical twists and poetical turns lamenting their fate. None showed a smile; few looked up to him; many turned to another part of the room, never saying anything and keeping their thoughts to themselves.
Over there, some traded assorted goods with each other, muttering something about giving it back next week and nods of assent in reply—or, if it was not viewed as fair, there would be negotiations and re-negotiations until both had reached a suitable compromise or one of them stormed off in a furious stamp.
Braeburn trotted forward to the mess hall, seeing Sandbar there with a mug of cider and an untouched slice of pie, that pony the only one at his table.
“Hi,” greeted Sandbar, having a lively air about him. “Anything?” Pushed the plate forward, beckoned Braeburn to it with a hoof. “You want some?”
Braeburn placed a hoof on his chest, gave a quick glance at his stomach. “I’m OK. Don’t wanna hog everythin' for myself, after all.” A pause; he tried to tune out the music by making sure the concert was out of his vision. “How’s Swift River? Nothing suspicious or anythin’ like that?”
Sandbar shook his head. “Not that I know of. He’s normal. Nothing much stands out to me other than telling me about trying poker.”
Braeburn’s eyes went wide. Then, they became downcast, revealing a smidge of worry inside. “Should’ve expected 'at. With fewer than few left to 'im, no wonder he’s gone down that way.”
“He’s low on cash?” Sandbar asked, puzzled.
“Doesn’t matter if he’s low or high,” Braeburn said. “I believe it’s the thrill an’ excitement.”
Sandbar slumped a foreleg on the table.
The performer had stopped, and the crowd gave him light applause. His response was not a bow, not a smile, but a looking around him as if he were lost.
Braeburn noticed the mug. He arched a brow. “Aren’t you a little young to be drinkin’ that?”
Sandbar laughed, and he picked it up just to show it off. “I’m over legal age.”
Another pause as Braeburn mulled over those words. “I’ll take it.”
The both of them were quiet as they allowed the ringing and clanging and sizzling of food in the kitchen go on in the background.
“You sure you don’t have anything else ‘bout our ‘pal’ Swifty?” Braeburn asked, sitting down at the table and resting his forehooves on the surface. “It’d be a shame if he turned out to be a turncoat...a changelin’.”
Sandbar’s eyes flitted at that. He shuddered. “I’ll keep my eye on him, but, rest assured, Braeburn, he’s himself even if I don’t know him that much.”
Braeburn shrank away, wincing at the crash of spilled forks behind the kitchen's fence. “About that...” and his eyes narrowed, “that...griffon.”
Sandbar looked up, confused. “What about him?”
“Just wonderin', that’s all there is,” he said. “Never seen a blue griffon at all. Whenever I’ve seen one, it’s always brown o' black o' white.”
Sandbar smiled. “A sign that he could be useful?”
“Or an outcast, if ya’ ask me.” A pause, a shrug. “A horrible play by a changelin’—can’t rule that out. Would be great to catch one for o'rselves.”
Sandbar stared at his food, pondering upon it.
“I don’t wanna be puttin’ any shame or shade on that feller’,” Braeburn went on. “We have lots of ponies left, but griffons...different story, different tale for them.”
“Last of their kind?” Sandbar asked, pushing his plate a little to the side.
“Let’s not go that far, but...we’re gettin’ there. That Gallus might as well be the last blue griffon in the entire world, an’ all it takes is a poison’d dart and...extinct!”
His listener wavered, half-falling from his bench.
Braeburn sighed, taking in a deep breath. “But, I think Gallus will turn out fine. He has fingers; pretty useful in a pinch. Could do well with manual labor. Massive wonder in the field as a farmhoof.”
Sandbar took a bite of his pie, keeping his eye on Braeburn.
“I’ll be checkin’ on everyone else,” he said, standing up. “Stay down here and don’t cause any trouble, alright?”
Sandbar gulped his bite. “Mm-hmm.”
Braeburn waved him goodbye and left the room via one of the illuminated tunnels there.
And Sandbar was back alone at his table, hearing the next blues song mixed with the babble bouncing around inside that spacious, gloomy room. He continued munching on his dinner and sloshing down his cider. When that was over, he brought the plate and the mug to the cooks for wash-up and disappeared from that informal hub into one of those illuminated tunnels.
Leaving the thunderous voice of that musician and his singular strums behind.