//------------------------------// // Chapter 46 // Story: The Haunting // by Admiral Biscuit //------------------------------// The Haunting Admiral Biscuit It would have been nice if we could have brought spring by just running through the woods. I knew that wasn’t how it was going to be, but I still pictured that in my head—like in Excalibur, where King Arthur rode with his knights out of the castle and the land bloomed behind them. Winter Wrap-Up was nothing but work, from dawn to dusk. We got up before sunrise, and I had an unpleasant reminder of what farming used to be. The two of us ate a quick breakfast of cold oatmeal, and then I helped Milfoil into her harness. To save her the effort, I dragged her wagon around front, and tossed my shovels inside, then the two of us made our way towards the center of town. There might have been an honor in being the first pony in the green. Some ponies might have been lining up since last night, or there could have been some way that Hayward’s Heath decided who the Winter Wrap-Up Queen was, and nothing would start until she made her way onto the field. The oldest pony in town could be the one, as well, or the youngest. I could have asked her, but I was content to listen, both with my ears and with my mind. ••• As the crowd grew, I began to feel a shift in the song. It was a happy change, welcoming—as well it should have been; we were all gathered to welcome Spring back. To draw the land out of its winter hibernation. By sunrise, the entire square was full. All the ponies looked to the east as the rim of the sun broke the horizon, and stood in place until it had completely crossed into the sky. I’d expected there to be an inspirational speech, but they didn’t go for that here. They didn’t need to. All the pegasi took flight again, briefly shadowing the ground-bound ponies in a thunder of wings, then the crowd dispersed from the village green in all directions to wrap up winter. Were I back on Earth, any such event would have been barely-controlled chaos. Between foals and malingerers and unclear instructions and simmering small-town feuds, it would have happened, but not neatly. Ponies didn’t operate that way. I should have known that from the Running of the Leaves; I should have known that from the song. When they all decided to get together and do something, they really did. They went all-in, and they made it happen. Had I been left to my own devices, I would have managed to screw something up. Milfoil knew that as well as I did, and she was constantly at my side, patiently explaining what I needed to do next. Back on Earth, I might have bristled at the commands, I might have tried to exert some autonomy, but I was growing to understand that I was a small part of a symphony, even if I didn’t understand exactly what it was or what my role in it was. I trusted that at least Milfoil did, so I never once questioned her as she told me what I—what we—needed to do next. We ended the day at the family farm, and that felt proper to me. I wound up steering a plow towed by Sabi Star and Sanguinary. I would have felt better doing it behind Milfoil, but she had correctly figured that I would be terrible at it, and need constant instruction in how to operate a plow. So she walked next to me, giving direction while steering a plow pulled by her parents. As much as I wanted to, I couldn’t claim that I was good at it. My ancestors would have smacked me upside the head for being unable to master a skill they’d no doubt possessed, at least assuming that cotton required plowing in order to plant. That was something I’d never wondered about before today. ••• I didn’t want to lie about why we had to leave after the day’s work was done. Luckily, I didn’t have to. There was never an excuse to miss a holiday, not back on Earth. I couldn’t say that I didn’t want to visit my parent for Thanksgiving because Uncle Terrance always found a new way to ruin the holidays, so I had to lie. Come up with a prior commitment or car trouble or the fact that I was in Equestria now and they didn’t have telephones. Milfoil didn’t lie or make an excuse. She just said that we needed to get back home. No questions were asked, there was no attempt at a guilt trip, nobody said that it wasn’t right that she wanted to spend time with me instead of her family. She stated a fact, that fact was accepted by her family, and that was that. There weren’t protests; nobody said that this year it wouldn’t be sleeping on a cot because Wal-Mart had had a sale on air mattresses and there was at least some privacy in the corner of the living room. There were nuzzles all around, and a few hugs, and of course the ritual gift of food, along with the presentation of a bottle for later. We didn’t talk of anything of great import on our way home. Milfoil could have asked me what I thought about participating in Winter Wrap-Up, and I could have asked her if I might have been more useful doing literally anything besides trying to wrangle a plow built for ponies. We could have discussed how much the holiday was symbolic and how much it really mattered for pony agriculture, and whether or not her parents would re-plow the wavering trenches I’d made, or deal with a crooked crop come the fall. ••• The only thing that would have perfectly completed the picture would have been if Windflower was impatiently tapping her hoof when we arrived home. She wasn’t. She’d gotten out the plant book and had it open on the kitchen table. I was more sure than ever before that she already had the whole thing memorized, that she could have told us about every plant on every page with little to no prompting. As soon as we walked in, she pulled the drawer open and pointed down at the sketches of the garden. Milfoil obliged her and set them on the table while I put away the food and bottle. I’d expected that Windflower would want to go back to her planning, but that wasn’t what she had in mind at all. She pointed to the drawing and then to the backyard. I wanted to protest. I had every reason to. It had been a long day already, and we were both exhausted. This was a thing that could wait until tomorrow. But we all knew it couldn’t, so we followed her out back and began digging. ••• I didn’t know how to translate the sketch that Milfoil and Windflower had made into an actual garden, but that didn’t matter, because they knew, and once again I was more than willing to follow their lead. To have them tell me where I needed to dig, what I needed to do. Milfoil and I didn’t work alone: Windflower dug, too. She only had her little trowel, but that didn’t dissuade her one bit. ••• By the time the moon was over the trees, we’d stopped talking, as there was no longer a need. Whether it was from exhaustion or tiredness or openness or something else, I could clearly hear and understand the song, and I knew what the land wanted, so I kept moving forward, turning over one shovelful of soil after another. The moon was high overhead when I noticed the old stallion was working with us as well. I had no idea how long he’d been there. For a while, every part of my body cried out to stop, that I’d done enough, and I ignored it and the shovel bit into the dormant sod again and turned it aside and I moved forward a few inches. Everything else in the world faded out until there was nothing left but us and the nascent garden and the song. ••• The false light of dawn was in the sky when we finally finished. Windflower was gone, no doubt back to her forest glade, and the entire garden was dug. The three of us staggered back to the house—it wasn’t right to send the old stallion back home—and he settled onto the couch while we went upstairs. Milfoil still had her harness on and I fumbled with the buckles and straps: I could barely uncurl my fingers enough to work them. She leaned down and unlaced my shoes for me, and I lifted each foot long enough to let her pull them off. We got in the shower together, just long enough to rinse off the sweat and the mud and then dried off as much as our fatigue allowed before collapsing into bed.