//------------------------------// // Chapter 6 // Story: The Garden of Ideology // by kudzuhaiku //------------------------------// There was nothing left to do but wait, and when so faced with such a task, Nut waited. Always one to keep busy, he did his job. While he waited, he drew more sketches, this time going into extraordinary depth and detail, with speculative drawings of what he guessed the bone structure to be—though with trolls, they had more of an internal hardwood structure than bone, but it served the same function, really.  When he wasn’t sketching, he was writing, and when he could not find the words to jot down, he returned to the creation of highly detailed anatomical depictions done in both pencil and ink. The day felt far too long for his liking, and as the afternoon progressed, Nut found himself in quite a rotten state of mind.  The urge to leave his post and to visit Tater Blossom’s home was overwhelming. He could sort this out—but to what end, and how? With violence? Something told him that he was not welcome here—his every instinct screamed to warn him—and he suspected that if he confronted the problem directly, things would take a turn for the worse. The idea of hurting these ponies left him queasy. They would foolishly attack him, and he would be forced to defend himself. These ponies would be quite unprepared for that.  No, going to check on Tater Blossom wasn’t an option.  With nothing left to do, with nothing that could be done, Nut waited.    How long had he been writing in his journal, unawares? Not about trolls, no, or about his findings here on the farm, but about everything that had happened. Every detail that he was aware of, at least from his own perspective, his own observations, all of which had been committed to page. A prolonged, slow blink happened, and he attempted to collect his thoughts. How long had he spaced out?  With a sigh, he lifted up his sketch pad, opened it, and saw Tater Blossom. Not just Tater Blossom, no, but her anatomy. Muscles, bones, internal cross sections. He’d drawn her naked. Well, more naked then as was typical. As he stared at the impressively detailed depiction of her skull, eyes, and brain, Nut wondered what he was doing here, in this terrible place. This… this was Raven’s doing. A word would be had with her later, perhaps.  Did Celestia know?  She had to know.  Nut suspected that Celestia knew, because Celestia had to know.  Celestia was just that kind of mare.  Had he been sent here as a catalyst?  Was he Celestia’s Metatron, at least in this instance?  Such a notion was preposterous, and yet, it could not be denied that Celestia worked in mysterious ways. This revelation left him snorting, his sides heaving, and he very much wanted a pint. No, two pints. Perhaps four. Delicious pints of Black Maple Ale. The smoked Black Maple Ale was comfort in a mug. As was so often the case, when he thought of Black Maple Ale, he thought of Black Maple, the randy no-nonsense pegasus mare who owned the Tapped Sap Pub.  He very much wanted to talk to her, even if she annoyed him to no end.  She would have answers. It didn’t matter that she was a brewer, or that her mark was an alcohol molecule; Black Maple knew ponies. She understood them in a way that he did not. When some poor soul dragged themselves through her door, crushed by life and ill-fortune, she would greet them and say, “Alcohol is a fitting solution for all your troubles.”  He hated the joke, it was terrible.  She was terrible.  But right now, he needed her advice.  Nut thought of his mother and father. He thought of his aunt, his mother’s sister, who was very dear to him. And Pod… surely, Pod would know what to say and do in this situation. Why, Pod was something of a troublemaker. She had a sarcastic streak as wide as the Ghastly Gorge. Pod… was… mouthy. Oh, not mouthy in the ways of the crude commoner, no. Pod was no sheathed sword. It could be said that she was a beautifully bound dictionary that could kill with papercuts.  Family matters were distressing, perhaps because his own family was so tight-knit.  His sketchbook snapped shut with a dull thud and his eyes wandered over to Susan. His umbrella was the only thing that made any sense. From her impeccable construction, to her mechanical precision, to her fine heft and balance, right down to the almost metre-long blade that could be called forth in an instant.  Since he could no longer trust pen nor pencil, Nut began to pace.    Nut did not know the approaching mare, who seemed fearful and timid. He resisted the powerful urge to interrogate her. Something about her shared similarity with Tater Blossom. Ruddy red colouration, orange eyes, but this mare’s mane was more golden than greenish-yellow.  No, she was quite beyond fearful, she was terrified. Of him? Now, everything felt so much worse. So many unknowns, so many things that needed sorting out. He needed answers, and the temptation to demand them from this mare were almost overwhelming. Surely, she had to know something. She could be made to tell. Nut reigned himself in, not at all caring for his thoughts, which he felt were a bit too entitled noble for his tastes.  With that in mind, he maintained his calm, deadpan expression, even though he was seething on the inside. He didn’t smile; he couldn’t smile. Any emotion of any sort, any type, it would be his undoing. The dam would give way, the levees would break, and then the flood cometh forth. He paused in place, no longer pacing, and adopted a rigid, well-bred posture, the very sort of posture expected from the upper crust of Canterlot.  A few yards away, the mare halted, set down the basket she carried in her mouth, and then stood there, pawing the ground. She’d been crying and she wore the sort of expression that one wore to a funeral. All thoughts of interrogation left Nut’s mind, and he found that he wanted to go over and comfort this poor creature, though his skills at doing so were rather, well, lacking. In the past, his attempts at comforting females, with Pod as a fine example, had never gone right.  No, comforting her would surely make things worse. Distracted now, Nut tried not to think of the untimely death of Pod’s hamster.  Suggesting taxidermy for the sake of a long lasting companion proved a terrible idea.  “My Pa wanted this brought,” the young mare said to Nut.  “What… what has—”  “Don’t ask, outsider.”  “But I need to know,” he said while trying to be as polite as possible.  “This here is the reason why outsiders shouldn’t be here,” the young mare said as some of her sorrow transformed into anger. “You come here and you upset things. You don’t respect our way of life, or how we do things. Ponies like you come here and mess with our way of thinkin’. You turn us against each other. You come here and the iniquity and the wickedness of the world comes with you. I didn’t want to come here, but I obeyed my Pa, as is right, and proper, and true.”  “What about Tater Blossom? Is she okay?”  “Who?”  Nut found himself suddenly unsettled. “What do you mean, ‘who’? Surely you must know your own sister. What sort of game is being played here? What is going on?”  “I have no sister of that name.” The mare’s body shuddered, she hitched, and an awful sobbing sound could be heard deep within her throat. “Yer mistaken.”  “Miss, if you could please—”  “I done did what my Pa asked me to do. I’ll be off now. I must be going.”  “But Miss, I just need a moment—”  “No.” She backed away, fearful. “I gotta go.”  For a moment, Nut wasn’t sure if he would let her leave. He wanted answers. She was already retreating, moving backwards, never taking her eyes off of him, as if she knew his ill-intentions. It wouldn’t take much to tap into her terror and make her talk. She could be made to talk. If she didn’t want to give answers, they could be taken.  Swallowing, Nut found that he was thoroughly disgusted with himself. He made himself breathe, a deep breath that made his joints jostle against themselves while causing electric tingles to go shooting through his nerves. Restraining himself, he allowed her to go, and departing, she never once took her eyes off of him. The fact that she was so frightened of him left him unhinged, unsettled, and shaken. Far too many commoners had been abused by nobles, and echoes from the past were now quite audible in his rigid ears.  She vanished up the narrow cart-wide lane, and Nut was, once again, alone.    With the shadows long and twilight fast approaching, Nut found himself in a fitful, frightful state. When he wasn’t anxiously lost in worry for his friend, he would berate himself for his dreadful thoughts. Such chastisement was necessary, because said thoughts were unwanted, unacceptable. What would his mother say? His father? There would be raised eyebrows and well-deserved harrumphs that would put him in his place.  There existed two Equestrias; perhaps more. Yes, there were more. It wasn’t a matter of urban and rural division, he realised. Ponyville was rural, but was also quite enlightened. Vanhoover, his current home, was urban, but lacked sophistication. Canterlot was the epitome of urban sophistication and enlightenment. The city of his birth was a beacon atop a spire of rock that cast a fierce light for all the world to see.  This place was an isolated pocket, an island of ignorance in a sea of light. For all of Equestria’s many problems, it surely had to be a place of light. Widowwood was not the Equestrian standard. It couldn’t be. Vanhoover had been a bitter disappointment, but it had its charms. It had hope, and promise, and potential. It was a dirty, dingy, disgusting city with filthy streets clogged with trash, and it could be said that the sun made itself scarce in the skies overhead to spite all those who lived below—but there was good to be found in Vanhoover.  And there was good to be found here, Nut reminded himself.  Hickory wasn’t a bad sort, and Potato Blossom, she was brimming with endless potential.  As he sat down in the grass beneath the shade of the wellhouse and the water tower, he thought of Vanhoover. The university there had accepted him, and had done so without knowing of his parentage and peerage. He’d been accepted solely because of his own merits, though who and what he was, that was revealed soon enough. In Vanhoover, he struggled, just as the commoners struggled. He lived without his family’s fortune. Survival meant taking every job, every task that offered payment, and somehow scraping by in an existential proving ground that was hostile to his every need.  Only the strong survived, and Nut had at least proven himself fit.  Just living in Vanhoover was an education into and of itself.  Seasons meant a change in what time of the day it rained. It could freeze in the summer, or be balmy and warm in the winter. The rains… the rains remained constant and unceasing. One was always wet, always damp. Chill was a constant companion. Flooded streets and slick cobblestones made for sodden, soggy frogs. Hooves were left softened from the omnipresent moisture that infused every conceivable surface.  Perhaps he was a masochist, but Nut had grown rather fond of it.  Now he was here. In this place. Widowwood, a place that could barely be found on the map. Had he come here fresh from Canterlot, this might have gone differently. Gone badly. Living in Vanhoover, trying to prove that he was fit to survive, that had changed him. Though, in what way, he could not say. But it allowed him to survive this place, and to endure the tumultuous events he now found himself swept up in.  Come what may, he would survive this, though he worried for Potato Blossom.    “I am a sheathed sword.” Nut’s lips barely moved as he murmured these words to himself. “I am the folded umbrella that unfurls in the rain. Whatever storm may come, I will weather.” As he said these words, stones orbited his head, as well as a variety of objects, all of which were held aloft by his focused telekinesis. Everything moved at its own speed and he was forced to concentrate upon each object to maintain its orbit.  “I am a sheathed sword.” Repeating the words, he pushed his focus inwards and opened his inner eye. “I am the folded umbrella that unfurls in the rain.” A deep breath. “Whatever storm may come, I will weather.” Another stone was lifted from the ground, and it joined orbit with the others. Round and round it went, circling his head with the other objects.  “I am a sheathed sword.” Again, he said the words, and they felt right, they felt good and true. “I am the folded umbrella that unfurls in the rain.” One more stone was levitated from the ground and set to move in a wide, almost elliptical orbit. “Whatever storm may come, I will weather.”  He drew a deep breath.  Eyes closed, his body unmoving except for the steady rise and fall of his ribs, he said, “It is not yet raining.”  Vanhoover was a city of rain. While the clouds threatened this place, not a drop had fallen. Not yet. He would remain patient. While he could move against these poor farmers and find the answers he craved, they did not deserve such fate, such terror. Even with his calmest, most composed demeanour, he could only be a threat to them now. To go and seek answers would do them harm.  “I am a sheathed sword.” One ear, his right ear, twitched, and when it did, several stones in orbit wobbled. “I am the folded umbrella that unfurls in the rain.” The orbiting stones smoothed out. “Whatever storm may come, I will weather.”    The blue alicorn was as tall as she was wise, though not as tall as her sister. A unicorn colt stood rigid, unmoving, at attention, his drawn sword at the ready. The room was cool, but he was warm, his blood sang, his ears were filled with bees, and his heart threatened to come smashing out of his ribs.  He aspired to be as serene as the face of the blue alicorn.  “You are troubled.”  He opened up his mouth to refute this fact, but she had more to say.  “I have seen your dreams, little one. Your cries of pain have pricked mine ears.”  Ashamed, fearful, his rigid posture failed him. His sword trembled. She could see right through him. Of course she could see right through him. She was the Night Lady. The Princess of the Night. She was the Eternal Moon and the fount from which all dreams came. And now, she was here, looking down upon him, and he was too ashamed to look upon her perfect, beautiful, flawless face.  “Tell me, little one. Tell me in your own words what troubles you, for your dreams remain a jumble of confusion.”  It was difficult to hold the sword now. The wood had become curiously slippery for some reason, and it took every ounce of his focus to keep it aloft. But he would keep it aloft, for the sword was a part of him, in very much the same sort of way that his horn was a part of him. It was an extension of his very being, and this, this troubled him.  “I hear the whispers,” he said, whispering in much the same way he heard others do when speaking of him.  “And what of these whispers?” the Night Lady asked.  Almost frozen in terror, with his heart creeping up his tight throat, the colt shivered. “The whispers say I shouldn’t exist. That I am dangerous. The whispers say I should be put away now, before the worst happens.”  “And do you believe these whispers?” she asked.  “Mothers pull their foals away from me,” he replied with his eyes now straight ahead. “I am a stranger in my own city. A safe distance is kept between myself and the others. All of my playmates have abandoned me.”  “What else?” The voice of the Night Lady was soft, alluring, almost a call to slumber.  “I am not yet named. I have no mark. I fear I serve no purpose, but to be a weapon.”  “Swords have names,” the Night Lady said, “but I suppose this is cold comfort. Only the finest weapons receive their maker’s mark.”  “Is there none finer?” he asked. “Otherwise, why is such terror warranted?”  When the big blue alicorn sighed, the colt very much wanted to melt into the floor.  “I think,” the Night Lady began, “that you are allowing your fear to rule you.”  “What could you possibly know about my fear?” As his composure broke, the wooden training sword clattered to the floor and bounced away. “Everypony is terrified of me. My gift has proven itself a curse.”  The colt dared to look up, and then immediately wished he hadn’t. Towering over him, the Night Lady and her furious, stormy eyes were focused fully upon him, and he wasn’t sure if he would survive her scrutinous inspection. His bowels squelched, his stomach gurgled, and for a few seconds, he was certain that his terror would come flowing out behind him.  But, the Night Lady did not shout. Her fury did not strike him dead. In fact, when she spoke again, her voice was low, and her words were slow. “You are too young to understand, to know. Your schooling has not yet taught you, but I assure you, I know and understand what it means to have others fear you. There are many who fear my very shadow. But that is neither here nor there. I am here to help you deal with your fear, so it does not become your weakness. Fear is a sickness, and if left untreated, becomes a wasting disease.”  “I’m sick?”  “Yes.” The Night Lady’s head bobbed up and down. “I see it in your dreams.”  “How do I get better?” he asked.  “Well”—the Night Lady extended one wing and it wrapped around the colt’s neck—“you have to control your fear, so that your fear cannot control you. If you let it, fear will be your undoing. It can and will be the undoing of everything you hold dear. Trust me, this I know, little one. Are you ready to begin your lesson?”  Grim-faced, the colt fetched his sword from the floor, raised it, and held it at the ready.  With a glittery burst of magic, the Night Lady conjured up a pile of pebbles, and these were allowed to fall to the floor. Wearing the same grim expression as the colt in her care, she pawed at the pebbles with her silver-shod hoof, cleared her throat, and then lowered her head so that she might look the colt in the eye.  “I will teach you something to say,” she said to him. “And you will say it. Once you have said it, you will lift up a pebble, and you will make it fly around your head, just like how the moon circles around the planet on which we stand. You will then say it again, and when you do, another stone will be set into motion. This will be repeated, until such a time that your fear is brought under control. It will take concentration. See how many stones you might maintain all at once. Strive for command, for dominance over your emotions. You must banish fear, lest it rule you. Are you ready to begin?”  Wooden sword held at the ready, he nodded.  “I am the sheathed sword,” the Night Lady murmured soothingly into his ear. “I am the folded umbrella that unfurls in the rain. Whatever storm may come, I will weather.”  After licking his lips, the colt haltingly repeated what had been said. “I… I am the sheathed sword. I am the… I am the folded umbrella… that… unfurls in the rain. Whatever storm might—may come, I will weather.”  “Very good, little one.” The Night Lady’s praise was sincere. “Now, lift up a stone, and set it into motion. Surely you can do that. Place your fear into that stone. Allow it to circle you. Control it.”  Following her instructions, the colt lifted up a small, smooth pebble, and then imagined putting his fear into it. It was visualisation, the same thing that one did when one channeled magic and cast spells. The fear was shoved right in, and then, after a few tries, the small rounded pebble was placed into motion around his head. Round and round it circled, the little pebble crammed full of his fear. He kept it at a distance.  “Now, little one, repeat the words. This time, say them with meaning. Pour your heart into them. It is good to show emotion. Allow yourself your feelings. You are not a cold blade, little one, but a foal, warm with life. Now do as you are bid, and say the words.”  “I am the sheathed sword.” It was a struggle to keep the stone in motion, but he managed. “I am the folded umbrella that unfurls in the rain. Whatever storm may come, I will weather.”  “Very good, little one. Now, take up another stone, and say those words again. This time, with feeling!”    “I am a sheathed sword.” Dozens and dozens of small stones, as well as a few notebooks orbited around Nut’s head. Some moved slow, some moved fast, but fine control was maintained over all of them. “I am the folded umbrella that unfurls in the rain. Whatever storm may come, I will weather.”  Another stone was added.  Just as it picked up speed, he sensed something on the vague edges of perception. He was being watched. Opening his eyes, he almost dropped everything when he saw Tater Blossom, who was holding a book in her mouth. Then, he noticed her condition, and the orbits could not survive his sudden upset.  One eye was swollen shut. Both ears were quite enlarged. Lumps and bumps could be seen jutting out everywhere. In the silvery moonlight, he saw her every awful wound in terrible, awful detail. But the lessons of long ago held true, his convictions remained resolute, and his first thoughts were not of violence, nor retribution.  What set him in motion was compassion and pity.  As he sped towards her, she limped to him, and he reached her in mere seconds. He pulled the book from her mouth, saw that it was stained and bloodied, and then he heard her say, “Can I get a drink of water?”  Her voice was a ragged parody of its former self, and hearing it pained him.  Holding her book aloft, Nut listened to her soft, pained pants. Both nostrils were almost swollen shut. Her lips were lumpy, misshapen, and scabbed. He expected himself to feel anger, fury would feel normal right now, but he was oddly calm as he led her over to the wellhouse, so that she might get a drink.  “I bled on my book. Can ya fix it? It’s all I have right now.”  He nodded; try as he might, words would not come.  At the wellhouse, he turned the valve that allowed the water to flow, and he adjusted it until it was a slow but steady trickle. She thrust her whole head beneath the flow, and he turned the valve just a little more so she could soak her head. Her mane was plastered to her face, ears, and neck. She stood there for quite some time with her head held in the flowing water, and Nut waited, allowing her time to recover herself.  The stained book was set down upon his suitcase desk.  Some of her scabs softened from the water and Nut watched with concern. He would need to patch her up—but he also needed to know what had happened. Overhead, the moon seemed to brighten a bit, and the increased light allowed him to see Tater Blossom’s wounds in great detail. He marvelled that she was standing at all, and had to remind himself that earth ponies were remarkably hardy creatures.  Tater Blossom sat down and held her drenched head beneath the cascading water. Thin rivulets poured down her back, leaving behind streaks of cleanliness, free of dust. Nut practically hovered over her, calm but pained, his face a grim mask of duty. He had his work cut out for him. He could patch up Tater Blossom’s physical wounds easily enough…  But it was the wounds he could not see that troubled him.