//------------------------------// // Setting Off // Story: Bardic Lore: Into the Wild // by Rose Quill //------------------------------// I was polishing the blade of Goldie’s rapier as I waited for the stew to cook. In the past year, Zeke had shown me marvelous ways of mixing spices to bring out flavors and herbs that could tend to small hurts. I had learned hundreds of stories and myths and explored things all over the ridgeline that I had come to call home. “Storyteller,” he called out. “Ain’t that stew done yet?” “Keep your horseshoes on, y’old crab!” I called back. In the past few months, I had taken on more than a few of the duties and upkeep of this little homestead. To be honest, it didn’t bother me that much. Zeke felt like what I had always thought a grandfather would be like; wise and patient, but always with a small hint of mischief and humor back behind the grouchy smile. “Call me a crab again and I’ll find me an old obeah mare and turn you t’one, ya rascal!” I grinned, standing and looking to the stew. It wasn’t quite done, but it would be soon enough. I couldn’t fault him for asking, the smell of the cooking food had long since permeated the air so that nowhere you went in this simple little cote was free of the aroma. I sheathed the rapier and put it over by a pile of items that had mostly sat since I had come here. “You always be cleanin’ dat thing,” Zeke said. “But ain’t ever used it. Don’t know how, by yer own admission.” “It was Gol… my mothers.” I still felt odd referring to Golden that way, but it had started to feel right, somehow. “Den why don’t y’be learnin’ it?” he asked, sighing as he shifted in his chair. “In de Wilds, we be, Azure. Dis be a place dat nopony knows.” “I don’t know how,” I said. “I wouldn’t be good at it.” “Better den without,” Zeke retorted. “Look, filly, I not be long for dis world, but I’d hate t’tink dat you be out there widout a way to see you through.” He slid to his hooves and took up a short cane. Tossing it to me, he picked up a similar one. “I don’t know de proper way of it,” he said. “But I can give ye something t’swing at.” Neither of us really knew what we were doing, but by the end I was glad he had taught me what he had about plants and salves. I needed it to ignore the sting of bruises to get to sleep that night. *** I woke sometime late in the night to the sound of heavy rain and saw the old zebra staring out the open door. “Zeke?” I called. “What is it?” He didn’t answer, just standing there as the wind of the storm ruffled his mane. “You ever see a storm,” he said after a moment. “Really sit and watch it?” I got up and walked over. “All i’be is water and de breeze, all mixed up.” He closed his eyes and tilted his head up a bit. “You can almost hear de ancestors in de wind on a night like dis, if you listen right.” I perked up my ears, but all I could hear was the loud thumping of rain on the roof and ground and the loud breathing of the wind. “The wind changed, dere be something prowling,” he said. “You c’smell it on de air. Stay sharp.” Just then, a bolt of lightning shot down and struck the pear tree that stood several hundred yards distant. As the haze of the strike cleared from my sight, the smell of burning wood and seared fruit wafting over to us. Seeing that, Zeke walked to a shelf and pulled out a bowl and a small clay jar I’d never seen him use before. Inside were several small bones with carvings etched into them. “What are those?” I asked softly. Ignoring me, Zeke set the bowl down and began casting the bones into it and staring intently at them before casting them again. After the third repetition of the act, he nodded and put them away again. “Zeke, you’re startin’ t’ worry me,” I said. He went back to the door and stared out again. “Sleep, filly,” he said. “You’ve a long day ahead of you tomorrow.” I woke the next morning and found myself alone. I heard shuffling outside and I went out to find Zeke scratching in the muddy ground around the base of the cote, strange sigils being left in the drying earth. He came up to the door again, completing what looked like a circle all around the house. “Ah, you’re up,” he said, throwing the stick he was using to me. Catching it, I saw it was a twisted bit of pearwood, lightly scorched along one side. It had probably come from the still smoking ruin of the pear tree last night’s lightning had struck. “Hold on t’dat,” he said, walking into door and rummaging a moment. He came out with a sealed letter and handed it to me. “I need you t’be headin’ out,” he said. “No, I ain’t castin’ you forth, so don’t start tearing. De bones told me it was time t’be off. I’ve got a niece nearby I’ve been meanin’ t’visit, and we have a long trail t’walk.” His wizened face crinkled as he smiled. “I don’t want to go,” I whispered, the stick in my aura thunking dully as I dropped it. “Nopony ever does, filly,” he said. “But dis ain’t but a short partin’. We’ll be walking together a while and after we'll b’seeing the other again, and sooner den you tink.” He nodded to the letter. “Dis has an introduction to a friend at de fancy Unicorn school in Canterlot. You should get a good education dere, plenty of stories.” “But what about you?” I asked, vision swimming. “Dat niece I mentioned? She lives nearby, so won’t be dat far t’visit. Besides, dis place is too much for me alone and you’re too young t’be tied down here. You got great tings ahead, Azure, but you’ll need skills I can’t teach.” He hefted the letter again. “Dey can here.” “What about the house?” I asked. He nodded to the line of squiggling glyphs he had etched into the ground. “It’d be here f’long as we need it t’be. By de end of de day, they be baked in and sealed. It’ll keep tings from pulling de place down.” He looked me in the eyes and smiled that craggy smile again. “It’s always gonna be dere, Storyteller,” he whispered. “Even when it ain’t.” As I packed my bag, I pondered his words. I suppose in a way he was right, just as things Golden had told me were still true. And if they didn’t take me in at the school, it wasn’t like I couldn’t return here and drag his leathery hide back with me. Speaking of the old stallion, I realized he had disappeared on me midway through the day. When I stood to go looking for him he stepped through the door, a length of wood across his back. “I know we still t’be together till we get dere,” he said, pulling the wood down. “But I wanted t’give you dis.” The length of wood turned out to be a long bamboo flute. “Was my wife’s, long ago.” He turned away slightly. “Never felt right fer it t’be silent but I couldn’t play it f’cary water.” I looked along the smooth wooden barrel of the instrument. Something about it just felt right, and I almost felt like a pair of wings were slipping over me as a warm feeling blossomed. “Thanks, ya old crab.” “What I tell you about dat?” he scowled at me, but we both broke out laughing. “C’mon,” he smiled. “We got a fair pace to hit de nearest rail track, and I don’t plan to walk all de way to Canterlot.” I looked back at the small cote once as we left, just as we hit the top of a short hill I had always enjoyed laying in the sun on. The tiny home sat almost invisible among the tall grass and scrub that had grown in the fields that had laid fallow since fall. I always wondered if I would ever see it again.