“Science has a method,” Nut said to his over-eager student as he held a wriggling, thrashing not-carrot aloft. “Applied methodology.” He paused, thoughtful, distracted by Tater Blossom’s smile, which could be seen just behind the camera. “What we’re doing right now is observation and data collection. Last night was also a period of observation. It is through observation that we first begin to learn. During our observations, we begin to lay the groundwork for everything that follows.
“Hypothesis. Conjecture. Theory. The rigorous application of skepticism, which I strive for, but I am not always the best at. I went into this believing these creatures to be trolls. This is bias. A cognitive assumption which influences and potentially distorts what I observe. But my educated speculation proved true in this instance. These are trolls.
“Strange creatures were reported. I was sent to observe. From my observations, and a bit of inductive reasoning on my part, I have concluded that these creatures are, in fact, trolls. But this is only the beginning of understanding, of learning. Now we must ask why. We must ask ourselves how. New hypotheses must be formed, new theories. Which means more observations, more data collection, and a process of stringent refinement.
“I have started the process with a few basic conclusions, a bit of evidence, and some rudimentary data, all of which I will make a report upon, and the university will decide if further study by a qualified team is warranted.”
He set the not-carrot down and the moment it touched the soil, it scurried off to join its fellow not-carrots. Nut watched it go, thoughtful, on the verge of distraction, and when the not-carrot vanished from view, burying itself down into the dirt, he returned his attention to Tater Blossom. She appeared a bit confused, but was clearly thinking. This was good, and he was impressed. He rather enjoyed her thoughtful expression and the joy that could be seen in her eyes.
“You don’t have a cutie mark for what you do,” Tater Blossom said.
Sighing, Nut felt a pang of regret that she seemed stuck on that point of contention.
“So if somepony doubts your findings, because you ain’t got no mark, ain’t that bias? Can you challenge that? If’n you’re good at what you do and others are all doubtful like about yer findings, that seems like a bias to me. Am I wrong?”
Almost too proud for words, Nut allowed himself a warm smile as he replied, “No, Miss Blossom. You are not wrong. To doubt my findings because I lack a mark that gives me credibility, that is, indeed, a form of bias.”
“So if a team comes out this way, a-doubtin’ yer findings, won’t that mess up their findings? What they see? It seems to me that this doubt stuff, this bias, it’s like a snowball. There’s so much that can change what we see and how we see it.”
“You are correct, Miss Blossom.”
“So how do we know what’s true then? Does this mean that what we think is true changes over time as our understandin’ of everything changes? Does truth even exist at all? What is true?”
Saying nothing that might disturb her, Nut allowed his student her thoughts.
“If we put all our focus on our marks, and we do, we do put all our focus and faith on our marks, then it seems to me that our science is all kinds of messed up, because you can’t be alone, Nut. There has to be others like you. Thinky types, that does science, but ain’t got no mark for it. And if just everypony holds on to the idea that our marks make us who and what we are, then a lot of this data collected must be just dismissed or hoofwaved away.”
Then, rather bluntly, she asked, “Are we backwards, Nut? I mean we ponies. How do we get anything done? How do we science stuff with our wrong ways of thinkin’?”
She was still thinking, so he waited, thoughtful.
“I ain’t wrassled with rough thoughts for a while,” she muttered. “Feels good to be thinkin’ again. Not much gets me goin’ no more.”
There was no more film for the camera, but that was fine. Photographs had been taken of the not-cabbages, not-carrots, and not-potatoes. He’d been a bit worried about such direct, aggressive observation, but it seems his fears were unfounded. The creatures were not nearly as dangerous as he’d been lead to believe, but he suspected that his actions may very well have changed their behaviour. They had developed a healthy fear of unicorns, at least, which was sensible.
He had ways and means to thwart their offensive behaviours and nullify their aggression.
“So this scientific method… all we gotta do is watch something, see what it does, and then figure out the how and why? Is that really all there is too it?”
“More or less,” he replied, satisfied with her simplification.
“And as an earth pony, I can do that, right? I mean, I just did that last night, and most of today. I done been watchin’ these here trolls and near as I can tell, I don’t need to be no unicorn to be smart. Though, it seems to me that I mighta got bit if I tangled with them like you did. But I can do it. That’s the point. I can. So I got the watchin’ part down, which means I need to work on the how and why part. And that’s where I’m stuck. I need more schoolin’. Which ain’t gonna happen here.”
“But you can. Life is a classroom.” Nut took a few steps closer to Tater Blossom, who stood behind his camera. “It really is simple, Miss Blossom. You start with a question. Ask a question. Any question. Next comes research and data collection. After that, you put everything you’ve found together, and try to assemble a hypothesis. If you’ve managed to make it that far, you try experimenting next, so that you might determine if what you’ve found holds up under scrutiny. Does it work? Does it hold true? Can you draw conclusions? Is there more data to be had? Take extensive notes of your findings, and if you can, share those notes with others.”
“You know, Nut, this’d be so much easier if I could understand half of what you say. This is why I need schoolin’. It’s like you speak another language. I’m tryin’, Nut, but this is hard.”
Crestfallen, he wasn’t sure what to say.
It seemed that what he had to say made things worse.
That didn’t make him feel good.
Sighing, he pulled his watch from his pocket, opened it, and had a look at his parents. They had first explained the scientific method to him. How old had he been? A yearling? It was hard to remember. He’d known the scientific method before he’d known where foals came from. His room back home was wallpapered with flowcharts explaining the scientific method, and various ways to accomplish its objectives.
Tater Blossom had no such advantage.
It wasn’t fair.
He recalled his horror when his mother and father enthusiastically explained where foals came from. Where he’d come from, and how he was made. That too, had flowcharts accompanying it, as well as diagrams. A whole lesson plan. Every conceivable detail that had to do with the wonders of biology and creation had been presented, shown to him in all their splendour.
“Mister Nut?”
“Yes, Miss Blossom?”
“I can see a difference. Mama, she just says stuff that she believes to be true. She holds up her books, and says that these books is true. Because the book exists, the words inside must be true. And everything she says, and everything she does, it’s all based on these truths.”
The young filly scowled and appeared to struggle with her words.
“But none of what she has to say holds up to that method, near as I can tell. Now I understand that faith is just that, faith, sometimes you believe without proof of whatever, but I… but… aw, shucks, I don’t know where I’m goin’ with this. Where can I go? Can faith even exist in the world with this here method?”
With little time spent in thought, Nut replied, “I have faith in science.”
Tater Blossom’s knees wobbled, and she stumbled backwards, as if she’d been struck. She sat down rather suddenly, and there was a duck-lipped expression to be seen upon her face. Nut’s first thought was to rush forward, to be with her, to be close to her, but he gave her the space she needed to process whatever it was that was going through her head. She was having a moment—and for this, he was glad.
Whatever came afterward, whatever might develop, ‘twould be glorious.
“But, Mister Nut, truth changes over time. If science is about truth, and truth changes, and you have faith in science, you have faith in the truth changing.”
“So it does,” he replied. With his thoughts provoked in such a manner, he took a moment to reflect upon the wise words spoken. “So I do.”
“Truth evolves,” Tater Blossom said, and her words were accompanied by a hard swallow. “Is this why you study evolution? ‘Cause when it comes down to it, it seems to be that evolution might just be the only truth. It keeps changin’, and provin’ that it’s true.”
Not wanting to influence her thoughts at such a crucial moment of development, Nut held his tongue.
“But that’s whatchacallit, a theory,” she said, blinking. “An idea. A good idea, but an idea. So I have this idea, how do I make it true? How do I hold this up to the method to give it a good sortin’ out?”
“Ah,” he said, pleased with her words, “that’s the real trick, isn’t it?”
“I have no idea how to get started. My brain is on fire with ideas.”
Such exquisite sadness and joy in equal measure. For her to have such an awakening. But what would be done with it? What could be done with it? These seeds had fallen into fertile soil, but Nut could already see the weeds that would choke them out. Pained, depressed, saddened, he wasn’t quite sure what to do, or how to feel about all of this. Yet, he was happy for Tater Blossom’s conclusions, for her thoughts.
Life didn’t feel very fair at times.
Mere moments after putting the picnic basket down, Hickory had his nose tucked into one of Nut’s sketchbooks. Upon arriving, the stallion had said very little, just a perfunctory grunt of hello due his mouth being full, which really wasn’t saying much at all. No mention had been made about the contents of the basket, what lunch awaited them.
“Pa, you alright?”
Hickory grunted.
“Pa?”
“It’s a hard thing, makin’ stuff straight or makin’ a perfect curve,” Hickory said from behind the book he held in his front hooves. “Hard thing indeed. A thing I respect. Don’t matter how it’s done, with wood, or brick, or pencil on paper. A line must be true, or it ain’t much of a line.”
“Daddy?”
“Tater, eat yer lunch. I done told the missus off, and I had yer sister make lunch.”
“Oh.” Tater Blossom’s ears fell back, her eyes narrowed, and sitting in the grass, she studied her father. “Butte Russet?” Her composure only held up for a few precious seconds, and then she began to giggle.
“I done told the missus not to name that pretty little thing Butte Russet, but I wasn’t listened to. What did I know, anyhow? Don’t tease yer sister, Tater. She was nice enough to fix lunch and a desert.” Then, Hickory snorted. “Butte Russet. I tried to tell that mare.”
“It’s really nice of her to cook for us.” Another giggle escaped, this one rather halfhearted, and then Tater Blossom turned subdued. “My poor sister is fit to pop. She shouldn’t be cookin’, she should be restin’.”
“If a mare stopped workin’ e’ery time she’s foalin’, ain’t no work would get done at all.”
“But Pa—”
“But this, and but that, sometimes I think you shoulda been called Butte Russet.”
Nut watched Tater Blossom’s ears rise in defiance.
Before anything rash might be said, Nut changed the subject. “Mister Wainwright, I have information that I believe you will find beneficial.”
“Is that so?” Hickory said from behind the sketchbook.
“The trolls are an asset. It is my recommendation that you try to live together, if possible. Miss Blossom here, she knows how to spot them. If you listen to her, she can tell you what to look for. If left alone and given space, these garden trolls might prove useful. The risks, such as they are, can be mitigated. They will always be dangerous, but that is a small price to pay for far fewer rabbits.”
“Yep.” Hickory closed the book, set it back down upon the suitcase desk, and then focused his small eyes on Nut. “I had the same thoughts, but I find it reassurin’ to hear you say it. They is gonna spread though, ain’t they?”
“They will.” Nut nodded. “I don’t know how fast their numbers will increase, or how fast and how far they will spread. For the life of me, I can’t even imagine how they appeared here, in this place, or from where they might have came from. I am going to recommend that the university fund a study.”
“Oh, that’ll set the missus off somethin’ fierce.”
“Maybe Mama needs to be set off,” Tater Blossom mumbled, and this got her a stern stare from her father, which she ignored.
“We’re dealing with a wholly new type of troll, one to my knowledge, that has not been previously encountered. I’m something of an expert on trolls. Not sure why I’m recognised as such, but I am. Not too many field researchers are willing to study them up close, I suppose.”
“There’s something I don’t get,” Hickory said as he returned his attention to Nut.
“And what would that be?”
“How is it that a feller such as yerself can study things like trolls, and not get ate?”
Nut did not respond right away. Instead, he squirmed a bit, hesitant to answer. Ponies were often uncomfortable with the answer. Nut aspired to be a genteel sort, but discussing his true talent, the very thing that made his mark appear, that made others uncomfortable. It wasn’t something typically discussed in polite company.
“Now that it’s mentioned, I’m powerful curious myself.” Tater Blossom was very much her father’s daughter at the moment, and wore a similar expression.
“Biology and scholarly pursuits are not my natural talent. Neither is art, my sketchings, nor photography. My refinement and my interests are all things I do that keep my true talent in check… how I keep myself balanced out.” Trying to calm himself, he thought of Susan.
“But what is it?” Hickory asked.
“I fear that if I told you, you would see me in a wholly different light,” Nut replied.
“It has something to do with the umbrella.” Hickory proved no less thoughtful than his daughter, and his small eyes glittered with keen intelligence.
“I suppose it could be said that the umbrella is the ultimate refinement of my talent,” Nut said, without mentioning what his talent was. “My talent also makes me uniquely suited to study natural selection, and the survival of the fittest. At least, that is what I’m told. I actually have some doubts about the whole thing, and I rather think that those who’ve told me would very much like to comfort me. To reassure me that everything is okay, and that I’m loved and accepted.”
“Suddenly, I’m uncomfortable without knowin’ why.” Hickory’s eyes narrowed, and he leaned forward. “Why would a talent involving an umbrella need that kind of reassurance? How is it that you need comfort, and why would you worry about being loved? Something don’t add up.”
Every time Hickory said ‘umbrella’ it came out as ‘umbreller.’
Nut found himself trembling a bit. The last time his talent was discussed, he found himself somewhat ostracised by his peers. Truth be told, he didn’t have a socially acceptable talent, but Celestia, in all her wisdom, had prepared for ponies such as himself, and his talent had been refined into something… suitable. It wasn’t something to be discussed in polite company of course. Even worse, Nut had made everything worse for himself, because he’d chosen not to become a soldier. Doing so might’ve made things easier.
“I was an excitable colt,” he began. “Not like I am now. Would you believe that I flunked magical kindergarten?” He grinned, nervous. “It’s true. I did. There was too much to see and do, and I was too busy watching the ants and the bees to pay much attention to my teacher. Now, this has nothing to do with my talent, but everything to do with my interests.”
Frightened just a bit, Nut sighed and tried to determine how this might end.
“For many foals, something magical happens when they pick up a pencil, or a paint brush, or play the piano, or any number of things. They show promise, even if a mark doesn’t manifest right away. But you know they’re special, and so you nurture that talent, you cultivate it, until such a time that a mark appears. It doesn’t always happen, sometimes the mark is for something unexpected that has nothing to do with what the foal appears to be gifted in.”
“Uh-huh,” Hickory and Tater Blossom both said together in unison.
“Well, one day, when I was quite small, I picked up a sword, and something magical happened. Some foals, they pick up a paint brush, and mark or no, they’re impressive artists right away. Well, my paintbrush was a sword, and my artistry violence. I wasn’t just good at it, no. No, it could be said that I was gifted. A prodigy. And not just swords, but anything I picked up. Halberds, spears, bec de corbins, axes, throwing knives, darts, chain whips, I was allowed to try everything with the hopes that my mark would appear.
“Because of my unique talent, because of the extreme nature of my talent, I was a prodigy, but not with a violin, pen, or paintbrush, I was taken out of school and placed into a special finishing school so that my gifts might be refined. Princess Celestia’s School for Disproportionate Responders. My mornings were filled with lessons and schoolwork, and my afternoons were spent refining my gift. Great efforts were made to draw out my talent so that my mark would appear. The refinement was necessary, you see… I was dangerous, and if left unrefined, why, I could become a danger to society. A menace. So I was schooled in etiquette and I was made a sheathed sword… which is to say, safe until drawn forth. Much time was spent conditioning me to be gentle, to be kind. My temper was tempered and my emotions were held in check.
“While all of that was helpful, none of that changed who and what I was. Early on, I decided that I didn’t want to be a soldier. There was a lot of pressure to become one… an officer. But I was against it, and so were my parents. They were very supportive, my parents. They read all the brochures, attended all the support groups, and did all of the followthrough that parents go through when a foal displays a worrisome talent that may cause trouble. It seemed as though everypony knew what my mark would be, just not what form it would take.”
“That’s… something…” Tater Blossom said, her voice a bit shrill with fear.
“When I worked as a page in the castle, I was also active in security. Looking back on it, I think my time as a page was my graduation test. I had to show patience. Restraint. My genteel nature was tested daily by an unaware public, many of whom treated me quite badly. Princess Celestia watched me like a hawk, at least I’m pretty sure she did. I never gave her a reason to doubt that I was a sheathed sword.”
“But, an umbrella,” Hickory said.
“Susan is a war umbrella, Pa. A weapon. A defensive weapon, now that I think about it, which I’d say suits Nut’s nature. He said he’s a sheathed sword.” Tater Blossom, like her father, leaned forwards. “What I don’t get is, how does this help you study critters and evolution?”
“Oh, that’s quite simple, Miss Blossom. Violence is the ultimate survival adaptation. Perhaps the pinnacle of all adaptations.” He took a moment to adjust his collar, and as he did so, he thought about his loving parents. “Different species grow claws, or fangs, or armored bodies, there are all manner of adaptations in mundane species. Now magical species, they have even more variations, some of which are fantastic and incredible. I am a small terrestrial quadruped that is considered a prey-species. Under normal circumstances, I would be a snack for a troll. I’m gifted with a unique adaptation that enhances my survival.”
“Well”—Hickory shook his head—“I dunno what to say. Not sure what I can say.”
“You don’t think less of me?” Nut asked, uncertain of where he stood at the moment.
“How could I?” Hickory countered. “A pony is what their mark makes them to be. How can they be faulted for that? We are what we are. No more, no less. We have some choice about how we go ‘bout doin’ it. Yer not runnin’ on a bloody spree, loppin’ off heads and leavin’ a trail of mayhem and bodies in yer wake. You made due with what yer given, and that’s to be respected.”
Surprised, Nut could not believe his good fortune. “I wish more ponies felt that way.”
“I bet this is the last place you thought you’d find acceptance.”
This caught Nut off guard. “Mister Wainwright—”
“No, it’s true. We’re hicks. Backwards hicks. It’s alright to say it. We’re not the most tolerant, or the most open, or even the nicest ponies. My missus forsook hospitality, which I don’t abide. I done heard it said that she thinks that yer some kind of fruit, Nut. In my own experience, Canterlot unicorns, the few I’ve met, have all been just about the most snobby, most unbearable, most uptight critters to be found on Almighty Celestia’s green earth… but you don’t strike me as one of them. I’m glad to have met you, Nut… and it is my hope that you feel the same way ‘bout me and Tater. I’m glad that we defied expectations.”
At a loss for words, Nut sat there in silence, trying to make sense of everything said.
“Pa, I’m powerful shocked.”
“Well, you should be, Spudlet.”
Truth be told, Nut was as well. It was a relief, actually, to have some acceptance outside of his family. Hickory wasn’t a pony to mince words or dance around the truth; every encounter so far leading up to this one proved this to be true. Nut found himself respecting Tater Blossom’s father, and hoped that the feeling was mutual.
“It is the will of the Almighty Celestia to be hospitable. Charitable. Turn nopony in need aside. In all things you do, be good, and right, and true.”
“Tater Blossom?” Caught off guard, Hickory’s head snapped around to have a better look at his daughter.
“Them’s the words, right? Did I quote ‘em right, Pa?”
“I think you did, Spudlet. What’s gotten into you all a-sudden?”
“Bein’ hospitable is one of the big commandments, ain’t it?”
“Yeah, Spudlet… bein’ hospitable is one of the Big Seven, ‘cause it falls under the Virtues. Kindness, and being generous.” Hickory blinked. “Baby, what'reya doin’ right now?”
“Pa, what’s the punishment for breakin’ one of the commandments of the Almighty Celestia?”
Hickory’s expression (and words for that matter) turned deadpan. “A whippin’.” A second later he asked, “Spudlet, Daddy wants to know, what’reya doin’?”
“I has me a hypothesis I’m ‘bout to put to the test, Pa.” Lifting her hoof, Tater Blossom rubbed her growling stomach. “I’m followin’ a method. I’m having myself a scrootenanny.”
“Spudlet, what in Almighty Celestia’s green earth is a scrootenanny?”
“Ask Nut, he can explain it better than I can. But I have to see if my data is true. Pa, did Ma really fersake hospitality?”
Nut suddenly found that his clothing, all of it, was quite itchy, which flummoxed him.
“I… Spudlet… that’s not… you…” Hickory’s withers sagged. “She did, Potato Blossom. Yer Ma forsook hospitality. I ain’t ‘bout to lie about it. I said it myself just a bit ago.”
“So, Ma, she done broke her a commandment.”
“Yeah, Tater.” Hickory’s expression sank and his stony face sagged. “She did that.”
Tater Blossom’s jaw muscles firmed, and her chubby cheeks rounded. Both ears pricked, a position of high alert, and when her eyes narrowed, a previously unknown demeanour showed itself for the first time on her face. Nut didn’t like it, he didn’t like it at all, and he suspected that Hickory didn’t care much for it either.
“Well, I done reckon Ma is due one hidin’, Pa. And I already know you won’t do it, so it falls on me. Because for a sin to go uncorrected, that’s a sin too, and that needs punishin’. I suppose I’ll be dealin’ with you later, Pa.”
“Now, Potato Blossom, don’t you even—”
“Don’t you make this worse on yourself, Pa. Ain’t that what you tell me? You sinned. Time fer ya to answer for it, with yer hide or the sweat of yer brow. But I’ll deal with you later. Right now, Ma’s got a hidin’ due. Ain’t that what you want from me? To obey and follow the whims of the Almighty Celestia? Without question or falterin’? Ain’t it my place to obey and never raise my voice in disobedience? Are you gonna stop me from doin’ what must be done? Is you a backslider, Pa?”
Hickory’s silence spoke entire volumes.
Without another word, young Potato Blossom stomped off. Nut thought about stopping her, but he didn’t dare. Was this his fault? Could he be held responsible for this? She’d hadn’t eaten her lunch and was leaving on an empty stomach. This was dreadful, and awful, and there were just no words to convey his horror at what he was sure to be the outcome.
“Mister Wainwright, I’m not one to tell others what to do, but shouldn’t you do something?”
The earth pony sighed, his neck sagged, and he seemed to age suddenly. He offered up a gentle shake of his head, sighed, and then said, “This has been a long time coming. What’ll be, will be. Who’s to say this isn’t the will of the Almighty Celestia herself? As it is, I think I’ll stick this out and hope for leniency.”
“You’re going to let his happen,” Nut said, his manner going quite stern and a bit cold.
“Blaue has done a whole lot of sowin’, and the time for harvest has come ‘round at last. Now for the reapin’. Far be it from me to interfere in the natural order of things.”
“Mister Wainwright—”
“Eat yer lunch, Nut. Butte Russet went through a lot of trouble. Do me a favour, Nut?”
“What is it that you require, good sir?”
“When my daughter comes back this way, look after her. Patch her up if necessary. I’ll have supplies brought out. I need to go, Nut. I have me some thinkin’ to do ‘bout my sins. Celestia’s vengeance comes in many forms, Nut. Be wary. It might be a mild-mannered Canterlot unicorn that comes along to shake everything up, or it could be a daughter pushed a bit too far. Everything we do comes back ‘round again, Nut. the sun rises and sets, comes back ‘round, and rises again. It always comes back around. So be the will of the Almighty Celestia.”
“Will you do nothing?”
“Tater Blossom is a precious fruit left too long on the vine, Nut. What was once a promising harvest has since rotted a bit.”
“Mister Wainwright… Hickory, you must—”
“I don’t dodge my debts, Nut. Now, with Potato Blossom, that filly deserves her revenge. And Blaue… Blaue deserves what she’s got comin’.” Hickory cleared his throat. “I need to go, Nut. Have lunch. Try not to worry. Potato Blossom, she’s big filly. Things’ll work out, one way or another.”
“But Mister Wainwright—”
“Good day, Nut. I’ll have supper brought out. Might be for the best that you avoid the house, Nut. I wish we’d been more hospitable. Yer a good feller, Nut. Don’t interfere. It’s time for Potato Blossom to grow up, one way or another.”
Then, without further ado, Hickory departed, and he whistled a sad, forlorn tune to himself as he left.