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// Chapter Six: Enter Academia 
// Story: The Cuckoo Child 
// by Nyarlathi 
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At its most basic and oversimplified, the hivemind was akin to an archive of accumulated information, stored in living minds, some of whom devoted their time to fact-checking and transcription to hard copy. A changeling could hold information back from access, but any that was not thus restricted could be accessed fairly easily without any need for the minds storing that information to even be bothered. If he had to describe it, Sparrowbee would have said that dipping into that information was more like zipping through an odd network of tubes connected to key words and concepts in search of the understanding he sought than searching something up in a file directory, but he had no way of knowing yet if this was normal for a surface-level ping. It could simply have been an individual thing, or one of inexperience. In any case, while it was immersive, it didn’t prevent him from eating or perceiving what was around him any more than a daydream would. It actually felt right, and somewhat fun besides, which was kind of disconcerting when he compared it to the panic he’d felt when he first noticed that he had a connection in his mind, but he set that aside as something to worry about another time.

As it turned out, the nymph who’d sneered at him over their love and rat soup – if one could even call it a sneer – was a fellow by the name of Sternite, who was apparently his nest’s full brother. As he sipped, he pondered how to proceed. If he’d been a true child in this situation, he could imagine having felt the first stirrings of rivalry – but with him as he was, it would hardly be more than toying with someone less equipped for a battle of wits. Well, it would be beneath him to take it too far, but if Sternite wanted to start something, he wouldn’t be averse to playful mischief here and there… by his standards – but unless Sternite acted, neither would he.

Setting his bowl aside, Sparrowbee glanced across at the rest of his clutchmates. Noticing that they were already being herded in a new direction, he moved to join them. If they were actually getting to leave the nursery, he didn’t want to be left behind. Though this time he was careful not to run into anybuggy’s rear, he drank in as much of their surroundings as he could while they followed the caretakers. Drawing nearer, hooves clacking against the smooth floor, a realisation dawned on him as the air filled with the chatter of many young changelings. He could see what looked like some kind of playground just outside what seemed to be a child-oriented structure he’d have called a building if he was sure whether it would even count as such when it was already a part of the hive. Was a hive a building if it was dug into rock? Not a question for right then, he decided, instead focusing on what all this meant. After untold centuries of picking things up as he went along, he was ending up in a school after all. Joy. Well, he mused as he trooped in with the others, perhaps this would be interesting.

Before too long, he and the others found themselves sat in a little swarm on a rather fluffy carpet of moss with three other nest groups, in a cheerfully decorated classroom softly illuminated by the same dangling amber lights as the rest of the hive so far. The lighting would probably have been a tad too dim for a pony student, but it seemed their eyes were adapted for this, as Sparrowbee could make out all the colours in the posters and the clearly nymph-drawn or painted art. Tucked away in little nooks around the room, boxes of toys were also visible – well, they were just out of grubhood. Was this… a kindergarten? The teacher, sat in front of them on the moss, was of round the same basic appearance as the caretakers they knew, but androgynous of feature and glasses-clad, while a slightly timid male assistant with pale purple accents hoofed them a box of something. Both of them smiled warmly at the assembled nymphs, and the teacher began to speak and broadcast. “Good morning, class – my name is Mx Cricket, and I’ll be your teacher this year, with my assistant Mr Scarab.” The aforementioned Scarab gave them a little wave, prompting some of the nymphs to wave back, Honey among them. “We hope that you’ll enjoy learning from us.”

As it turned out, the first activity after a brief round of introductions involved the alphabet – not too strenuous, but they weren’t allowed to crib from the hivemind, and the glyphs were unfamiliar to even the most advanced of them. Sparrowbee had learned new languages before, though, so he was hardly worried. Mx Cricket introduced them to a new game, in which they had to identify the letters being shown to them on flashcards from the box Mr Scarab had fetched, and make the associated sound. It was fairly basic fun, but fun nonetheless, which would hopefully aid in absorbing the information. Sparrowbee hadn’t realised that he and the other young ones had restricted access to the hivemind’s information, but it made sense to him. After all, if they tried to get by solely on what the hivemind could tell them, they would be lost if they were somehow separated, or had to try to learn something new for the hive.

Then, it was storytime, Mx Cricket beginning to read the story of a nymph’s many early transformation mishaps to them from a picture book while Mr Scarab went to fetch something. They held the book open towards the nymphs in their magic, pointing along the words being read with a hoof as they did. Again, it was somewhat basic for Sparrowbee’s taste, but it was amusing anyway, and possibly a useful preview of things to come. Mr Scarab, upon his return at the end of the story, passed snacks around – sippy cups of love-infused syrup and caramelised mice, which the class gleefully partook of while Mx Cricket told them what was next.  Basic maths, it seemed, which Sparrowbee found interminably boring, except for the unfamiliar numerals. It seemed to take forever, just learning the numbers up to ten and the difference between odd and even. He could tell that it presented genuine difficulty to others in the class, including his nestmates, but he couldn’t help being frustrated. In an effort to keep that frustration from leaking and drawing attention, he focused on trying to memorise the numerals – but he was nonetheless relieved when playtime was announced, joining in with the general excited clamour for the toyboxes being passed around. He wasn’t as genuinely excited about it as the others, but his current youth gave him the excuse for exuberance and he took it.

There were dolls, both plush and solid, many carved from wood or stone. He suspected, as he seized one of what seemed to be a particularly soft dragon, that many of these had been stolen or bought in disguise. Then again, he didn’t know how changelings were with toymaking. He idly played with his selection for a moment or two, before bringing it over to terrorise a pretend pony village some nymphs from a different nest were playing with. They giggled as they made the ponies flee, with mock cries of alarm, and retorted with a carved warrior pegasus they claimed to be a disguised changeling. Chuckling somewhat himself, he indulged in the dramatic pitched battle of fabric and wood, before having his dragon lead the changeling out of sight of the village. Then, he seized a plush changeling and switched it with the dragon. “So the dragon was a changeling all along, tricking the ponies so the other ‘ling could get more love pretending to’ve saved the town.” He declared, careful not to make his speech too eloquent. The others seemed pleased with this, having their changeling hoofbump his, before pressing some wooden ponies into his hooves and dragging him into the massive celebration party.

It was actually kind of fun, in an indulging-kids kind of way, but he returned to his place readily enough when playtime was declared over. From the gleam in Mx Cricket’s eyes, he got the impression it would be something fun. His eager anticipation was soon rewarded when, once they were all sat comfortably, the teacher began to talk them through the basics of finding their magic. “That’s right, slow your breathing and relax. Allow your thoughts to drift, picture a warm glow inside you, one that you’re drifting towards. When you find it, try to reach out and touch it.” Their mental presence was gentle as they soothed the fretful ones, helped to relax those still thrumming with too many busy-buzzing thoughts.  Sparrowbee, used to calling on his magic automatically, actually wasn’t the first – that was a chubby-cheeked nymph named Chirp, whose horn began to glow a faint green that flickered out when they and their nest celebrated. He did, however, manage to be the next to light his horn, sinking blissfully into the welcoming warmth of his magic. He had to be shaken out of it by his nestmates’ celebration before he was responsive again, a giddy glee clear in his features. After all that time spent without access to it, the feeling of reconnecting to it was quite a rush.

They spent a while longer getting a handle on it, figuring out how to turn the glow of their horns on and off, before being told to line up by the door for lunch. After a few false starts and re-organisations by the adults, the nymphs were trooped towards a spacious chamber with an array of tables and seats, joining the queue for the trays. Once he had his tray, Sparrowbee followed the flow of the line up to the dinner distributor, who deposited a sippy cup of what seemed to be some kind of love cordial onto his tray, alongside a plate of unidentified meat chunks in a gravy he assumed to be partially love syrup.  Seating himself with Elytron and Silk on either side, he pondered the lack of cutlery. Well, nobuggy else seemed to expect the new nymphs to use them, so he took his cue from the others and leaned his head down to greedily devour the delectable dish. It did taste like some kind of love, but while he was beginning to learn that love came in myriad flavours, he couldn’t yet identify them. No matter, he was sure he’d soon be a connoisseur. Over lunch, he listened to the others’ idle conversations, weighing in from time to time, but for the most part his focus lay in the consumption of his meal.

It wasn’t too long before his class finished eating, whereupon they hit upon the idea of checking out the playground. Once they were out there amidst the play equipment, it was chaos, tiny changelings scattering through the place in a frenetic attempt to try everything. It reminded him of that game with the mini hoards, actually, and he grinned to himself as he gathered some of the playground toys into groups. His own nest, when he pinged them with a general impression of his intentions, were eager enough, and some of the others were curious enough to join in. This, he thought, was a great way to establish himself to the rest of the younger nymphs as a leader. The older ones would probably take more persuading, but that could wait. At least this time there seemed to be less confusion over what made an effective strategy.

After a while, an unmistakeable mental call pierced their focus like a whistle – at first, they didn’t really know what to do, but with both Silk and Sparrowbee pointing out what the older nymphs were doing, it wasn’t too long before they were lined up once more and trooping back into their classroom. It took a few minutes for the adults to get them settled down again – threatening to remove minutes from the next day’s break helped. Then, once they were sure they had everybuggy’s attention, Mx Cricket began to outline some wing exercises they wanted the class to run through. Both they and Mr Scarab demonstrated, coaching the little ones on each distinct movement. Stretch – up, down, out, forward, back. Buzz – slow, fast, in between. Varying the pitch of the buzz – apparently messages could be conveyed that way without relying on the hivemind.

All in all, it was progress, but it was tiring, and it was a relief to most of them when they were turned loose on the chalks and slates for art. At the very least, it was fun, but it was also valuable practise in the skill of gripping things in what seemed to be a magic field upon their forehooves. By the end of the class – and, it seemed, the school day – Sparrowbee had managed a single almost mediocre depiction of the teacher. Well, he considered it such, but considering he’d spent the entire lesson trying to get it right – and art had been a centuries-long hobby of his before – he supposed he oughtn’t be surprised it was one of the ones Mx Cricket liked particularly. All but the pictures the nymphs didn’t want to bring back to the nests were hung up, after Mr Scarab applied a preserving layer of translucent resin to all of them to prevent the chalk smearing off. The caretakers having arrived, the nymphs were lined up once more and led tired but cheerful back to the nursery to relax a while before dinner.