//------------------------------// // Grandmother Oak // Story: House of the Rising Sunflower // by kudzuhaiku //------------------------------// The barony seemed to have a new life since the coming of Paradox Sunflower. Though it had only been a few days since her arrival, there was a noticeable change, one that could be felt and observed by all. She was adjusting, though it was a slow, sometimes painful process. The ponies of the barony, to their credit, were cautious and patient, which was just what Paradox needed. That first night had been quite rough, and the torrential downpour accompanied by the terrific thunderstorm made it all the worse. Paradox had a meltdown over a lack of privacy, and it was reluctantly, after many tears, that she tried Sundance’s suggestion of sleeping in the spare cargo crate. She balked, at first, cried a bit more, and made quite a fuss. Paradox wasn’t used to hard living, just as Sundance wasn’t used to hard living. The cold gnawed at her and the lack of simple comforts left her in a sorry state. But now, just a few days later, she seemed to be adjusting a bit as angst became acceptance. Much to Sundance’s surprise, the second cargo crate became a teeny, tiny bedroom and Paradox took it surprisingly—shockingly—well. She attacked it with her craft supplies and turned it into something disturbingly feminine, something glittery and peppered with sequins. Much of the third day was spent in artistic expression, rather than various states of sobbing, bawling, or blubbering. Paradox became noticeably calmer and a bit more evened out. Fuzzy pipe cleaners became a menagerie of animals on parade and she painted cheery, vivid watercolour backgrounds. Now, much to Sundance’s concern, she was eyeballing his crate. Standing atop an outcrop of rock, Sundance cut a regal silhouette as he surveyed the goings on down below. Turmeric and Paradox made short work of the bloodletting brambles, and did so with no real danger to themselves. The two of them turned a dangerous job into a boring one and now the only peril they faced was the hazard of boredom—a dire foe indeed. Boredom was a real threat to the barony; not so much to the peasants, but for the creatures new to living here. As for the orchard itself, it was in bloom. Trees once lost to the bloodthirsty brambles could now be tended. Birnen Streusel and Kant Apfel were already hard at work, pruning away old, dead, withered growth so that the new could grow in unhindered. This was long-term work, with long-term payoffs. He’d been told that they’d see little in the way of returns this year, but that each year after would be a little better than the previous. There were homes here, he’d discovered, old burrows carved into the ravine walls. They had been lost to the brambles, to weather, and decay. Once, the burrows had doors, windows, the very things that made a home a home. But those things had long since rotted away and now, animals called the cosy burrows home. It was important that he did not call them caves; Sauerkraut Pie had been quite adamant about that. These were burrows; earth ponies lived in burrows, not caves. Recovering the orchard was the first big step towards recovery. Stump the woodcutter—a pony of short, stumpy stature—was a hot, sweaty, breathless mess. He stood panting, and clearly had something to say, but had no breath with which to do it. Sundance, patient, waited for him, and did so with a kind smile. He was mindful to not look cross, or out of sorts, because the slightest sour expression caused upset among the peasantry. They wanted a pleased Milord, not one disappointed. “Sire,” Stump gasped, almost a wheeze. “Take a moment,” Sundance said, offering up a kind suggestion. “No hurry.” But the old, greying stallion continued, heaving out each word. “Sire, Grandmother Oak has fallen. Must have been the storm.” “Grandmother Oak?” “She was a big oak. Hundreds of years old. Sprouted in a crack of rock and grew out at an angle. Most of the roots were exposed. Whenever the crags flooded, more of the topsoil would get washed away and for the life of me, I have no idea how Grandmother Oak held on for all the years she did. But the rains finally did it, and she had nothing left to hold on to. She’s finally toppled over.” “I see,” Sundance replied. “Why tell me?” “It’s a lot of wood, Milord. She was ancient and hollow and her trunk would fill with water and freeze, which left her gnarled and twisted. But still a lot of good wood. A few winters ago, the hollow reached all the way down to the roots, which let the water drain out. Centuries have shaped her. Seems a shame to let her fall and rot. She gave us acorns to make flour.” “Just say what you want to do, Stump.” “I need a team to move her. We’ll drag her back and figure out what to do with her. She’s huge… an ancient giant… but she’s also mostly hollow, so we should be able to haul her home.” “Do what needs to be done.” Then, after some thought about what he had said, Sundance endured a moment of intense worry. “Do be careful. I don’t want you hurting yourselves over an old tree. No strained backs, or pulled muscles, I don’t want that to happen. Assemble a team of stout ponies, but do nothing that puts you in danger. You got me?” “Of course, Sire.” Stump bowed his head and this turned into a nod. “Put Privy Pit and Hoe Hum to work.” Sundance took a moment to consider what he was about to say, what it was that he was doing. “Lamp Black too. Those three keep leaving lewd, crude pictures painted on the rocks that upset poor Sauerkraut. Clearly, they’re bored and in need of something to do.” “Aye, Sire. Ol’ Lamp, I don’t know how he managed to talk those two into sitting down into bowls of paint, but he did. He’s got a slick tongue, that one.” Stump’s brows furrowed. “Leaves a mighty clear image when they push their backside up against the rocks—” “It does.” Sundance was forced to hold back a smile that threatened to undo him. “I don’t want Sauerkraut having a stroke, so let’s keep the troublemakers busy, alright?” “Right, Sire. I’ll see that they’re hitched up and made to work.” “Good. Thank you, Stump.” The old stallion smiled, a rare sight indeed. “Yer welcome, Sire. Back to work I go.” “Remember, I don’t want anypony hurt,” Sundance said as the old stallion hustled off at a brisk trot. “I don’t want our artists punished… just kept busy for a while so Sauerkraut can recover!” Corduroy’s cottage was now a functional infirmary, though it still lacked glass windows. A door had been constructed, and Acorn the packrat had rummaged around in his collection of junk to find a doorknob. This left Acorn in a mighty pleased state, because, by and large, his junk collection was considered worthless. Even a few pony-sized beds had been constructed and all they needed were mattresses. Sundance was astounded by the work that Corduroy had done. The fit and the finish of it all. Of course, what was a cottage for Corduroy was practically a castle for ponies. Above him, overhead, the bare, naked rafters were waiting to be adorned with herbs, bulbs of garlic, and whatever else might get hung up there. Turmeric’s herb drying rack hung in the middle, and it was a beautiful, but simple creation of shaped wood. “Look at this place,” Sundance said to his nurse. Corduroy nodded, but her gaze was floorward. “So much done in so little time.” Sundance angled his head to peer out the window. “How are you able to do all of this?” “We built houses for one another,” she replied. “The whole community. All of us. It’s just what we did. I spent my puppyhood learning construction, along with everything else. Way of life, I guess.” Focusing on Corduroy, Sundance noticed that she seemed out of sorts. “Is something bothering you?” “The floor—” “But the floor is amazing.” “Not really, no.” She sighed, a heavy sound, and gestured at the floor with her paw. “Stone floor. Lots of little gaps between the stones. It looks pretty, but it isn’t smooth. I won’t be able to sterilise this like hospital tile. It poses a risk. But then again, so do the walls. So does everything. But the floor… patients will spend a lot of time on the floor and less time on the walls. All of this”—she waved her paws around her—“is fine, I guess, but I wish for it to be better.” “It’s a start,” Sundance said to the discouraged diamond dog. “It is,” she replied. “Now you’re the one who seems glum.” Sundance took a step closer, but stopped short so he wouldn’t get a crick in his neck whilst he looked up at her. “This place gets to you,” she said, a bold statement. “It’s boring. There’s only work to keep one busy. Teatime is easily the most exciting time of the day. All of the work… so much work. And only work.” “Yeah…” Sundance’s response tailed off into a breathy sigh. What could be said? He was already painfully aware of this problem, but had no idea how to fix it. “It’s a lack of stimulation,” Corduroy continued as she waved her paws around. “Amber Dawn and Lemongrass cry from boredom. They need school. Lemongrass had a tantrum when I offered to read to him because all of the books have been read already. Complete and total meltdown. Even his mother couldn’t quiet him. Poor little guy is stressed out. His baby sister sleeps all day and then cries all night long.” “What do we do?” asked Sundance. “I have no idea.” Corduroy’s tail ceased to wag and sagged as her whole body slumped. “The thing is, we’re the ones who are unhappy. Just us. The ponies who’ve lived here their whole lives, they seem perfectly happy. Content. If I can be honest and blunt, I find them a bit annoying. They derive such simple amusements. Do simple things. They’re happy and I’m… us… you and I and the others who aren’t from here, we’re at risk of losing our minds. And then there’s Paradox… what do you think happens when the terminal boredom sets in for her?” “Uh…” Sundance, after considering Corduroy’s words, found that he didn’t want to think about it, much less talk about it. Paradox was volatile, just like the particles she studied. “Shit.” “Shit indeed, Baron Pottymouth.” “I’m sorry—” “Oh, come now. At least swearing breaks up the boredom. We could stand near the waterfall and make bad words echo ‘round the canyon.” “Would it make your day better?” he asked. “My day,” she began, and then she followed this up with a huge, deep breath. “My day… let me tell you about my day… I had to scrub paint-encrusted labias—” “No!” For some reason, Sundance squeezed his eyes shut, which did nothing to block out the words. His ears flapped up and down like frantic bird wings, but his ability to hear continued to function, much to his dismay. “Not only that, but I had to explain to them why they don’t want to sit in paint. Those two… they’re worse than puppies… foals. They looked at me like I didn’t know what I was talking about. And Grimer Patch… his chewing tobacco habit… I have half a mind to go and burn the tobacco fields down to the ground. Ugh!” The mere mention of paint encrusted labias left Sundance eager to change the subject and to forget all about it. “So, the problem, as I see it, is that our growth poses a problem, in that outsiders have different expectations for entertainment. If we keep growing, and we will, because we have to, this is going to turn into a big problem for us.” No reply was made by Corduroy, who had gone still and silent. “Will you look at that!” somepony shouted outside. “Grandmother Oak!”