III
The Hamlet by the Waters
Galatea knew not what to make of the stallion named Broadleaf. This she concluded, after a moment’s walk into the forest. Perhaps she ought to reconsider, mull over and contemplate, in her ignorance of where his hamlet lay, and him as her only guidance…
No, a look-over would do. It would fill the time.
He was an earthpony, she had ascertained, much like the guise she had long assumed. His sturdy build and gait told her such. Yet light on his hooves and nimble in his movements. A stallion that had travelled far, and worked hard to found a new homeland. His braid left few strands astray, but this was the only vanity he’d allowed himself.
Broadleaf did not speak along the way, communicating solely through little, stolen glances. Still, Galatea was aware she did the same, whenever she felt her eyes were drawn by a bird flitting through the trees, putting her in the mind of the bird from long ago. She did not mind, either.
It was only when Galatea’s eyes drifted from his soul’s mark, past the saddlebag still slung over his withers, down towards his belly along with the in-between, that he finally spoke up, amber eyes meeting light blue.
“Pardon me,” he said, voice light and shaky, the fur around his cheeks turning somewhat dark, “but is something the matter?”
They had just hopped over a little stream, remaining close to one another in their strides. Broadleaf appeared to have seconds thought over his words, for right after they left his mouth, he tore his glance away, looking anywhere but at Galatea.
That was curious, indeed. There would be no wolves in the forest, not at this time of year.
“I was inspecting your mark,” said Galatea. That was no lie, as her eyes had moved to his mark. His tail swished as she said so, and he coughed. “What does it tell you?”
“I thought you were staring at… nevermind,” he mumbled, flustered. He averted his gaze. “They are a tracker’s mark, I was told. Or a farmer’s, another would say. Me, I’ve taken it to mean I am to collect lumber, to build and shelter.”
“I see,” said Galatea, nodding solemnly. “A builder’s work is certainly… intriguing”
“You flatter me,” said Broadleaf, offering her a smile, “but I am only a lumberjack, nothing more, nothing less.”
“So you claim,” Galatea replied. “But first, I must see your work.”
Broadleaf bobbed his head. They went onward, their steps careful through the undergrowth, over and under winding roots, clustered rocks and thick bushes. Here and there, though, Galatea noticed as Broadleaf would give her an odd look. Galatea’s eyes drifted to his behind, while he looked elsewhere. How odd, she thought. Nothing was out of sorts. Perhaps her remark earlier had shaken his resolve, or cast doubt into his mind. A fellow of his trade would need to remain healthy, through the changing seasons, day and night.
“If it concerns you so,” said Galatea, in the most sincere tone she could muster, “mine eyes tell me that you are indeed a healthy, virile stallion.”
Broadleaf tripped over a rock.
* * * * *
It hadn’t taken long after that for Galatea and Broadleaf to arrive – and neither had much to say to the other once Broadleaf was hoisted back onto his hooves and dusted off. Now, stepping out of the treeline, Galatea’s eyes fell upon dwellings. Humble dwellings. Small huts lined along a little winding stream, huts made of wood and moss, hastily set up in the short time Broadleaf Heart’s company had been here, surely.
They lacked finesse, far from the unicorn cities or the pegasi fortresses, or even the long-standing earthpony villages Galatea had seen in her travels throughout the land. The closest comparison she could find was to liken it to griffon yurts, oftentimes built overnight as their caravans roamed in the East.
Galatea glanced at her companion, eyebrows raised and unsaid questions dancing on the tip of her tongue. Broadleaf pawed at the ground, the ghost of a rather nervous smile upon his lips.
"This is a small sanctuary," said Galatea at last.
"It is," said Broadleaf. "But we wish to see it grow, large and proud, comfortable and warm."
He pointed towards a particular group of huts and carts, arranged in a half-circle. At the center, before their doors, stood a narrow pillar of stone, as tall as Galatea was, its end tapering off in a blunted tip. It stood a fair distance from the trickling stream, a small wooden bridge laid across the water leading straight towards it.
“That, Mistress Galatea, shall be the heart of this hamlet,” Broadleaf proclaimed. His hoof indicated a clearing, where ponies mingled and carried stones and lumber. Four pillars had been erected on each corner, twice as tall as Galatea stood. "That will be our hall. And we need all the hooves we can get. We don’t know when Winter’s chill shall arrive."
Galatea’s eyes met Broadleaf’s. He looked at her now, gaze panning up and down her form.
"You are strong in body, and in mind, I should think,” spoke Broadleaf. “There are few ponies I know who’d challenge themselves with anything heavier than a boulder and yet, here you are, chipping away at a mountain!”
Galatea opened her mouth to retort, but found nothing. Broadleaf proffered a forehoof.
“Would you help us?” asked Broadleaf, gently. “We shall give warmth and comfort, in return. Nothing more, or less."
Galatea did not answer, immediately. She was reflecting on how she’d got here. She’d summoned enough willpower to deviate back then, subtly, veering from an unending watch to slowly changing a tiny part of the world. Now, at this crossroads, that hesitation tugged at her mind and her hooves, once more.
She stared down at her forehooves. In this guise she’d taken, she saw them to be as chapped as the last time she’d looked. She then turned her gaze back to the earthpony, who still held his hoof proferred. His forehoof, she now saw, bore the same marks – not a mark like the one imprinted on her flank, but those of a sort accumulated over time.
If she had come this far, though, what was one more step?
"I will help you.”
* * * * *
They crossed the stream, one after the other on the wooden bridge. When they arrived at the other end, near the erstwhile center of the hamlet, Galatea was met by a crowd. As much as a crowd could be, when there were only a good dozen few ponies, most of whom were tending to their newly-built huts.
A dozen or so ponies were a crowd, nonetheless, to Galatea’s senses. She hadn’t felt herself tense up when she did. Only when she’d realised Broadleaf had moved further ahead of her, greeting his fellows in his open, friendly fashion, did Galatea release a sigh.
“Broadleaf!” cried a pale brown colt, “you’re back!”
All heads in the crowd turned towards them. One by one, they cheered and called out, all sorts of voices both young and old.
“Broadleaf!”
“Welcome back!”
“Where have you been? We’ve been waiting!”
Plenty of cheers and greetings all around. Soon enough, Broadleaf was swept up by them, his unassuming smile equalled only by theirs. The children, three of them at least, ran round and round the stallion, laughter filling the air.
Then, one of them, a little, mottled-green filly, stopped in her gallop. She tugged at her mother besides her, pointing towards Galatea.
“Who’s that?” she asked. The cheers and greetings died down, taken over by a hushed silence, their eyes now fixing on Galatea. And, for a few, fleeting moments, none dared to speak. Whether it was by fear, by curiosity, she could not tell.
It did not matter. She had not anticipated being met by this many ponies, but it would have to do. She stepped forth, parting and quieting the crowd. Her tail swished, yet her hooves tensed anew. The ghostly feel of her hidden wings and horn were felt all too keenly now.
Of course, Broadleaf chose that moment to speak aloud.
“I have met a friend, down in the woods while foraging,” said Broadleaf, touching his bag to indicate what unidentified contents he’d returned with. Breaking free of his companions, he went to join her side. “She’s a strong, capable mare, and surely, her aid would be most welcome!”
The mother of the mottled-green filly tilted her head. “What village is she from?” She stared at Galatea. “What village are you from?”
For this, at least, an answer came organically to Galatea. “I am a nomad.”
It was only after the fact she realized, this was the second time she’d spoken to a living being.
Broadleaf nodded slowly. “I think… I think she was looking for a friend.”
“And any friend of Broadleaf is a friend of ours,” an elder mare spoke up, voice warm like crackling embers. Emerging from the crowd, hunched, wrinkled, but with confident steps that belied her age, she was an ashen-grey matriarch, her coat not unlike Galatea’s own. She looked to meet Galatea’s eyes with her tranquil green pair. “Now, what is your name, young one?”
From the corner of her eye, Galatea saw Broadleaf’s nervous glance. Strange, It wasn’t his name they were asking for, it was hers. She glanced at him, then back at the elder. So many names, few that would pass easily.
Then Broadleaf cleared his throat.
“Galena,” he said, “that is her name. A lovely name for a lovely mare.”
Galatea’s eyes widened fractionally. A few scattered laughs followed, including the children’s. Broadleaf patted her back. The matriarch chuckled.
“A fine name, Galena,” she said. “You can call me Bright Hearth. I bid you welcome to our hamlet.”
A cheerful name, for a sullen-coloured mare, Galatea thought. She bobbed her head, a gesture that was answered in kind by Bright Hearth. She wasn’t sure what it was for, though it certainly indicated approval.
“What is your trade, child?”
“Mine trade?” Galatea repeated. She looked down at her own two hooves. Chipped, weathered. Just as expected. “I labour tirelessly, I suppose. And I keep watch.”
Curious murmurs arose from all around them. Bright Hearth rubbed her chin, her dark grey eyes twinkling. Galatea cleared her throat.
“But as mine companion said, honored matriarch,” said Galatea, glancing at Broadleaf, “I shall provide aid, should you ask for it. I suppose he has asked for it, and I have pledged yes.”
“Wonderful!” said Bright Hearth. “The more hooves we have, the better. Please, Galena, what might you ask for, in return?”
To that, Galatea waved her hoof.
“Nothing, nothing much at all, honored matriarch. I only ask for this experience.”
* * * * *
Galatea did not know how much time passed afterward. Only that, after moment’s deliberation, the matriarch Bright Hearth did nod and let her be on her way, walking beside Broadleaf Heart. The curious stares had not escaped Galatea’s notice. They’d passed most of the hamlet’s inhabitants, engaging in their afternoon routine, from the children to the adults. It was only when they reached the shade of an old, twisted tree, at the fringe where the clearing met the larger forest, that Galatea turned to Broadleaf and asked aloud.
“Don’t your companions trust me, Broadleaf?”
Broadleaf halted in his walk, tilting his head. He bit his lips, tapping the ground.
“What’s wrong?” asked Broadleaf. “What brought this up?”
“This, all of this.” Shaking her head, Galatea gestured to all of the hamlet. “I spy their glances thrown our way, suspicious glances.”
Broadleaf’s eyes followed her forehoof, then darted left and right, surely taking in the sight of a few wary souls. He shook his head.
“Plenty of reasons why they have their eyes on you, you know,” he mused, clearing his throat before Galatea could interject. “See here, Galatea, you… are quite prominent.”
Galatea frowned, pawing at the dirt. “Am I?” she asked. “Preposterous. I am certain this name of mine you’ve given is a sufficient disguise.”
Broadleaf let out a nervous little laugh.
“It is an uncommon name, yes,” said Broadleaf. “It was the unicorn alchemists’ term for what we would call lead. They do like their fancy names!”
“It should not be such an oddity, then,” Galatea replied, frowning.
“Oh, earthponies still do not mingle so freely among unicorns,” Broadleaf lamented. “Even with the Warming of The Hearth, there’s still a way to go before we’ll see ourselves as one people... But a mare like you, I’m sure you must’ve seen them often.”
Galatea shook her head. “Not as often as I wish. Perhaps you ought to have used mine true name. Then it would not be so prominent.”
“You asked me not to, and I promised you I wouldn’t,” answered Broadleaf. “And I keep the promises I make. They’re hard to come by.”
He looked down at her hooves, then smiled. “Don’t you worry, you’ll fit in just fine, I’m sure. Come, there’s much to be done, and the day is not yet over.”
* * * * *
The days and weeks that followed began for Galatea and Broadleaf Heart at Sunrise, and only ended at Sunset. With the thawing of the Long Winter, the days grew ever longer in the Spring. So too, thus, did the workload. The huts which Broadleaf’s people had built were just the beginning for his community. There were so much more the little hamlet needed, to flourish and to provide shelter.
It began with the bridge. One log did not a bridge make, as Galatea had observed and Broadleaf was to concur. Together with the hardiest amongst the villagers, ten in total, Galatea carried her heavy share of logs, laying them across the stream for safe passage.
They then needed rope to tie the bridge together, but rope itself had to be crafted. Knowing this, the villagers had settled close to a patch in the forest where hemp grew, and collected its seeds to sow for future years. The hemp was harvested, strands extracted, woven together into string, which became rope when two strings were circled around one another, not unlike the spiral of a unicorn’s horn. Or an alicorn’s...
Now, more could cross safely, with a far lesser risk of being caught by the stream.
Next came the farms. The grounds here may be fertile, yet there was only so much space near the hamlet itself to sustain its needs. With Winter’s memory still fresh, more than a few were worried over supplies when the time came to face the next harsh Winter, even a year away. So Galatea guided them to where she had fed for centuries, to the clusters of berries and mushrooms and other plants in the undergrowth, lest the small farm they had toiled on would not serve them well.
The watermill was built next. This one, Galatea was fascinated by, seeing in its construction the greatest display of artisanship for a hamlet where none of the dwellings were built of stone. Its many working parts moved in synch with one another, crushing grain into flour for the bread. She had asked, as she moved bags of grain into place and watch the water work its magic, for lack of a better term, who could had devised such an ingenious device. Broadleaf, sadly, did not know much of it, prompting Galatea to remind herself that one day, she’d have to look into it.
But huts became cottages. Little cottages for the farmer, the miller, the baker. All built with laughter in their hearts, and conviction, all to shelter them from the elements. They weren’t the prettiest of homes, a far cry from the opulent unicorn castles or the foreboding pegasi fortresses Galatea had seen in her travels, but they were home. And that was all they needed.
Every day, Galatea would emerge from her nook, share in her berries and roots from her morning walks for breakfast with her companion, before taking on the day’s work. She worked with Broadleaf by her side, long into the evening. And always after dinner, Broadleaf shared the tales of his travels over the campfire to wind down for the day, regaling them with legends from Firefly to Gusty the Great, heroes of all three pony tribes.
Every retelling was special. Broadleaf’s boisterous laugh livened up the night, as did his joyous encouragements towards the others to share their own little anecdotes..
But when her companions asked for her story in turn, Galatea would always turn them down, excusing herself for the night soon after. She would return to her nook in the old mountain, with not another worry. Often, the questions they posed could bear much more weight than a log upon her back. Questions of who she was, questions of her past, her home. The question of her family, above all, could so often distract her until Broadleaf asked if anything was wrong.
Galatea wasn’t sure she liked that. Such petty concerns for family should not weigh down on her.
One day, however, she excused herself from work, returned to her mountain, and saw someone was already there.
* * * * *
“What are you doing here?” demanded Galatea.
The intruder sputtered and muttered, fumbling on his hooves. “Galatea!” he called out. His braid swung in the afternoon breeze, his smile graceful and gentle.
“Not so loud!” hissed Galatea.
Broadleaf blinked, then looked around the rocky outcrop frantically. “Apologies,” he stammered, dragging his eyes to meet hers. “Galena! Hello I… I was waiting for you.”
Once she was sure of their secrecy, she turned her eyes back to Broadleaf in a suspicious glare.
“Waiting for me, are you,” Galatea repeated, in disbelief. “I have done mine labour for the day. The Sun is setting soon. You should rest as well.”
When Broadleaf did not move, Galatea stepped closer.
“What do you want? I have nothing of worth.”
“Oh, nothing big, I assure you,” replied Broadleaf. Galatea stopped, her muzzle very close to his. A cold drop of sweat slid down Broadleaf’s cheek. He stammered, “I-I only wished to talk to you. It has been in my mind for some time, and I could wait no longer.”
Galatea raised an eyebrow. “About?”
Broadleaf drew a sharp breath. “You,” he said. “I wanted to talk to you about you, Galena. About... Who you are.”
“... What?”
“Yes, you heard right,” said Broadleaf. When Galatea did not say anything else, he pressed on. “I… I suppose it’s been a long time coming, but, I… I am curious, you see.”
One hoof at a time, Galatea moved back, holding her breath, until she was a foreleg’s reach away from her companion. This was not in the plan. This was never in her plan. But she could not leave him here, wondering. He could return to the hamlet. Perhaps cast her out, even.
Except the Broadleaf she knew would never know that. His gaze was that of concern. Slowly, Galatea released her breath.
“I… told you,” she began, softly, “I have nothing of worth. No possession. No story worth telling.”
Annoyingly, Broadleaf let out a chuckle. Not a boisterous, nor mocking one. But one that tugged at her. Why, Galatea thought, did he have to make it so hard?
“I don’t believe you,” said Broadleaf. He pointed towards her nook, hidden from view by a curtain of leaves and moss Galatea had asked for. “Surely, someone like you…?”
“No,” Galatea repeated, but she didn’t know if she even believed it. “Nothing, Broadleaf…”
An idea crossed through her mind. She hadn’t had much time to talk to Broadleaf, outside of their long work days. The walk down the forest path had passed by so long ago.
Yes. It would do.
“... If any, I’d like to hear yours first.”
At first, a pause. A laugh followed. A hearty, boisterous laugh.
“You’re a sly mare, aren’t you?” Broadleaf said. “Only if you tell me yours,.” He raised a hoof as Galatea opened her mouth to retort. “But only when you are ready. What say you to that?”
This was not part of the plan. This was never part of the plan. Then Broadleaf smiled again, and Galatea found the resolve to answer.
“Only when I am ready, Broadleaf,” she said. “Then we shall talk.”
* * * * *
Readiness, Galatea found, was difficult to come by. Days and nights went by after that talk, the hamlet grew larger still, but still she never felt it coming. Often, guilt struck her whenever Broadleaf would glance with those warm, kind eyes of his, hoping for a word out of her.
“Not at the moment, Broadleaf,” she would answer, and he would oblige. Sometimes, though, it was she who’d asked, when she was sure no-one would hear. He’d answer the same. Whether it was over campfire or another hut to build, always the same reply.
Galatea did not mind, and neither did Broadleaf, she hoped. They would have the time. For now, they were content with what little they had, and life went on as it should.
Until one day, when Galatea worked to gather firewood at the edge of the forest, within sight of Broadleaf up on the roof of what would become their hamlet’s longhall. It would be their greatest building, a hall to welcome all, wherein Bright Hearth said they would celebrate.
Galatea had turned her back when she heard a cry.
“Help! I’m, I’m stuck!”
Her blood running cold, Galatea’s gaze drifted to the source. A filly, one of the few children she had seen here, had played too close to where their longhall would be, nudged a wooden beam too far, and got a hoof stuck between the timbers.
Shaken loose by the filly’s struggling, the beam swung towards her, freely, without pause. Galatea acted then, crying out in alarm and dropping her stack of firewood, but as an earthpony, even she was too slow, too far, too late.
A shadow went by, dropping down from the roof. Galatea cried out.
“Broadleaf!”
He did not heed her for one moment. He dashed by, pushed the child out of the way, and the beam smashed against his hindlegs.
* * * * *
Galatea did not say much, when she carried Broadleaf to his cottage close by the forest’s edge. Bright Hearth had followed, carrying a supply of herbs in a basket she assured Galatea would help him, and now here they sat by his side, allowing him rest upon the soft, straw-covered floor.
Now Galatea braved herself to speak.
“You are a fool,” she chided. “You should…”
“What?” Broadleaf countered, biting back a grimace. “What would you have had me do, Galena? She was right there, and no one else was.”
“Hold it, you two,” Bright Hearth interrupted, holding up a herbal plaster. She beckoned for Galatea’s helping hoof, and Galatea followed where commanded. “Hold him steady, young one. This will hurt.”
The scream that followed told Galatea that it did, indeed, but one look at her face, and Broadleaf’s grimace softened to a sheepish, awkward grin.
“There you go,” Bright Hearth said tenderly.. “The splint shall let your bones heal.”
Upon sighting Galatea’s cocked eyebrow, she chuckled. “The unicorns are not the only ones gifted in the arts of healing, young one. We have our own ways.”
“I see that well,” said Galatea, prior to pausing, so she could contemplate her words a moment. “And, if I may, I would like to see him through.” She glanced at her companion. “I should have intervened, however little I could do. You are wise and cherished, matriarch, and the hamlet will require your guidance still. I shall take it from here.”
Galatea had expected a protest, or a scolding. But instead, Bright Hearth merely nodded.
“You did ask for experience. Very well. Yet I will return, now and then, with whatever is needed. For now, let him rest.”
She left out the door, leaving the two of them in the cottage. Without looking at Broadleaf, without another word, Galatea laid down by his side. Strange, she thought, that now of all times, she didn’t want to see a single trace of his wound. Perhaps she was too used to seeing him unblemished, after all.
Broadleaf’s voice tickled her ear, quieter than usual.
“Galatea?” he said. “Thank you.”
She glanced at him, frowning. “You…” she began, but relented. “You should rest. It has been a long day for you.”
Broadleaf laughed, though it wasn’t his strongest laugh. “And it hasn’t been for you?”
“You know what I mean. If you are concerned, Broadleaf, about your safety– I know you stand watch every night– I shall remain here, by your side, until you are healed, whether it be by mine hooves or the matriarch’s.”
He didn’t answer immediately. Galatea looked away, seeking solace in the sound of the stream that rushed nearby. It was gentle, and pleasant enough, taking her mind off of the beam that fell, the wound Broadleaf now bore.
“A rest sounds like a fine idea,” he said, “but with you, never a worry to be had.”
Galatea felt him press his neck against hers, breathing out a heavy sigh. But she did not recoil, nor move one inch, and soon after they fell asleep, hoof in hoof, her head resting against his.
* * * * *
In the days that went by, the hamlet’s growth grinded to a slow halt. The others would pay Broadleaf a visit, paying their dues. Bright Hearth had assured everyone the wound to his hindleg was not life-long, and he’d be back to what he was, in time. Nevertheless, the truth remained that he could not work. He’d been a pillar to them, carrying more weight than any other could while he still walked. Without him, some vigour had been lost.
He was never alone, at least. Galatea made sure of that. Broadleaf appreciated her company, as much as if not more than Bright Hearth’s. Galatea knew this, but still felt uncertain as to why. From the way he thanked her more often, the small glances he’d give her after she’d fed him a bowl of soup, and how they’d curl up around one another in the nights, Galatea sensed a kinship was forming between them. Yet she did not know what name to give, or where it had come from.
It was on the last day of Summer, shortly after his injury, that Broadleaf asked Galatea that she grant him a favor at last. She had just finished knotting his braid when he spoke.
“Galatea,” said Broadleaf, “though I grow fond of your company, you must go and aid them, in finishing our hamlet.”
Galatea shot him a questioning look.
“No,” she said simply, “that is your duty. And you are still hurt, Broadleaf. I cannot allow you to work so early. I am no healer, but surely your healing comes first.”
He made no sound, choosing to answer by laying a forehoof on her own.
“Please, my friend,” he said. “You and I both know Autumn is coming, and after it, Winter. Not a very kind prospect for our harvest. And… well, isn’t it’s time you get to know our neighbours, truly know them?”
“Whatever do you mean?”
“Tell me,” Broadleaf said. “What is the name of our farmer? What is the name of Bright Hearth’s firstborn child, or the weaver’s daughter?”
“Their names…”
Her voice disappeared. There was nothing Galatea could say to that. Few names she could recall. Only the plan and path Mother had set her on.
Broadleaf wrapped her hoof in both of his own, and Galatea closed her eyes.
“Very well,” whispered Galatea. She made no move to withdraw her forehoof. “Before I part, then, Broadleaf– please, tell me. Why? Why did you ask me to come? You could have just as well walked away and left this strange mare on her mountain.”
Her companion contemplated his forehooves, still around hers. He sighed.
“Because,” Broadleaf began, alighting a tender gaze on Galatea, “because you were alone. We earthponies keep our ties strong and close, with one another and the earth beneath ourselves.”
Slowly, he formed a thin smile. Neither boisterous, nor proud, nor shining. Merely a sign of kindness and acceptance.
“You should not have been alone, Galatea. None of us should be.” Gently still, he removed one of his forehooves, to place it against her shoulder. “Thank you, for keeping me company. But the hamlet needs you. Go, Galatea. I will be here.”
Galatea nodded, ever so slowly.
“I shall return every night, Broadleaf, until you are healed.”
* * * * *
Galatea went to work soon after. As a matter of fact, the longhall was not far from completion, but lacking Broadleaf, others had needed to take on an added burden next to their own chores, if they had not set them aside entirely – which few of them could, for however important the longhall was to their community, far more pressing were always the thousand tiny duties which kept their stomachs full, their fires lit and a roof above their heads. Then they saw Galatea lift her first load of timber since Broadleaf’s accident, and their uncertainties vanished.
They toiled together, pulling, carrying, kicking into place. Together they worked with her silent participation, as Broadleaf had instructed. Yet Galatea also took the time to immerse herself in other matters, whenever a break would come.
First she asked the name of the farmer, whenever she came to pick up grain. He was a stallion, thinner and younger than Broadleaf, green as his name – Green Pines. He wore a farmer’s hat, made of straw, and though he was gruff in the ways Broadleaf wasn’t, Galatea grew used to his company and conversation.
Next she’d asked of Bright Hearth’s firstborn, a lumberjack who went by the name Midsummer. Midsummer often met her down at the longhall, aiding her in carrying the vital lumber, or converting it into timber. Excitable and dutiful, his fur a lighter shade of brown than Broadleaf’s, Galatea nodded to his words whenever he’d talk about seeing the hamlet grow large.
Last was the child, the weaver’s daughter, the one who Broadleaf had risked his life for. Her name was Birdsong, her yellow-streaked mane complimenting her mottled-green fur, eyes as green as emeralds. Lithe and shy, Birdsong had so often followed Galatea in secret, watching her morning walks. It was one such peeping which had led her to become entangled in the timber. All Galatea had to say, to her profuse apologies, was a simple pat on the back, and all was well.
There were only so many Galatea could find and name. There was little time to mingle, between building the longhall and caring for Broadleaf. She had a duty to carry out, as she’d promised. And carry it out she did, through thick and thin. Time passed quickly, but not too long after Broadleaf’s injury, the last stone was pushed into place, the last wooden beam set firmly. The longhall, crafted of wood and stone, at last was finished. At that, the hamlet’s people cheered and celebrated, in accordance to what Bright Hearth had predicted.
There was only one whom Galatea wished to inform, though. And he stood there, smiling, outside his cottage when she went to see him, slipping by the cheering crowd.
* * * * *
Upon the straw-covered floor, Galatea laid down by Broadleaf Heart’s side, just before his door, close enough to feel his fur brush against hers. They watched their neighbours pass by, the children playing. For once, there would be no work tonight. The harvest had yet to finish getting brought in, yet this occasion warranted its own festival, that’d be held this one time, this year. Villagers would not celebrate a building’s completion years after the great day. They would, however, celebrate the bringing-in of the harvest every year, just as surely as the wheel on the mill turned back to where it had started.
Galatea had glimpsed such happenings from afar. Now she’d been part of one. After that long, long time she’d spent at the mountain, waiting for any other change besides the tiny difference that she made to the bedrock every day, she pondered to see these people who lived in the now. And yet the wheel still turned. Autumn had arrived, and Winter would follow soon.
Her thoughts were broken when Broadleaf nudged her shoulder, a welcome smirk on his lips.
“You should celebrate,” said Broadleaf. “You’ve done plenty enough as it is. Come now, Winter’s not coming for a good few months.”
Galatea sighed. “I suppose it shall be a longer rest than usual,” she said. “But mine duties have been resolved.”
She stood up to leave, paying him a look of acknowledgment.
“You know where to find me, Broadleaf,” she said, nodding. “And I shall give aid, should you, or Birdsong, or Bright Hearth, or anyone else need it again.”
Broadleaf gave her a curious glance. He shook his head, seemingly begging.
“Come now, Galatea,” he said. “Stay here, closer to us all. There is plenty of space, and I... wouldn’t mind your presence. In fact I’d embrace it gladly. I’ve… grown used to you around.”
He staggered to his hooves. Galatea moved to support him, but Broadleaf waved her off.
“I am fine, not to worry!” he said, letting out his familiar boisterous chuckle. “Please, though. Would you stay with me?”
With only slight hesitation, Galatea shook her head. “I’m afraid I cannot,” she said. “Pleasant as this is, and though I’ve grown used to being around you as well, it is mine duty to stand vigil, in case the woods should come forth to reclaim this hamlet. I must return to mine nook.”
Broadleaf’s smile wavered, but he did not relent. He placed a forehoof on her back, just as Galatea was turning to leave.
“At least, come drink with us tonight,” he said. “Celebrate. Be merry. You’ll have earned it. You have done your share, as we all did.”
The touch of his hoof on her back wasn’t forceful, but inviting as his words were. Galatea saw no reason to push it off. She turned to him, and nodded.
* * * * *
Broadleaf Heart’s braid was trimmer and tidier than normal was when Galatea came to meet him at the longhall. It would become unraveled as the night went on, all filled with laughter and more stories than even Galatea could keep track of.
Mead had a tingling taste, tickling Galatea’s tongue. It was pleasant enough for her to drink, though Broadleaf had cautioned her against offering it to Birdsong. And songs were sung, many tales shared, dances done atop tables to the music of fiddles, on the joyous occasion this was. Still Galatea kept to herself, just as she’d preferred, watching Broadleaf and his friends roister. On occasion, he’d ask her to join in, to which Galatea simply raised her pint. The temptation were plenty, such as when he offered his hoof in dancing, or when little Birdsong asked her to.
Ultimately they settled on daring Galatea to gulp down a full pint without batting an eye. They cheered, patted her back, laughing along. None more so than Broadleaf, his ever-present laughter tickling Galatea’s ears, gracing her with its warmth and that unknown feeling.
When all was said and done, they all parted ways, ready to face another day’s worth of work in the fields and in the forest. Strong and sturdy Broadleaf was the most dazed of them all, as it turned out, staggering on his hooves, slurred and uncertain in speech. How fortunate that his recovery had been so complete, she could only muse.
Galatea escorted him home, letting him lean on her shoulder, him giggling a little drunkenly still. Once or twice he pressed his lips on her cheek, but Galatea paid him little heed, patiently knowing that what a stallion did under the influence of drink was oft as fanciful as child’s play. In the recesses of her consciousness, the question etched itself of just how much drink it’d take her to reach half the inebriation of these ponies, whom she so resembled and yet wasn’t one of.
By the time they’d reached his cottage, Broadleaf had got so tired, he collapsed almost immediately, snoring and dozing off. Much as, again, a child would. And Galatea tucked him in, gently covering his form with a blanket, and leaving with nary another word uttered.
Within her mountain nook that night, though, her dreams were filled with the vision of what it might be to live in a home like the hamlet’s denizens had built for themselves, to return to after a hard day’s work, with a hearty drink in one’s gut and a loyal companion at one’s side.
