IV
The Traveller From The North
Galatea’s nights were filled with dreams. She’s dreamt before, of course, in the few times she’d found time to herself. Often, she could touch the dream, too. She wished that she could bend it, little by little, as she saw fit. Yet it was small comfort. There was little that she could find here, in the vast expanse of her dreams. Only trees far as her eyes could see. And try as she could, she never could touch the stars, or even the Sun and Moon above. So she settled for the mountain. Her mountain. Home, or as close as she could make it, a lonely rock island in a sea of trees. She’d try to cross the sea of trees here, yet always, without fail, would she find herself standing before her mountain yet again.
Now, as she dreamt, that island was a little much larger, for a clearing was to be found, close to the little nook where she rested. It was fertile, she saw, with plants sprouting through the soil, blooming, then decaying as the cycle started anew.
She stood there in silence, thinking of what could be here to fill it, for nights and days to come. Perhaps buildings would sprout from the soil as the plants did, wood and stone and all. The mill where the harvest was stored. The longhall where all gathered to cheer, housing the mare they knew so very little of. That little cottage sitting at the forest’s edge, and the stallion who’d welcome her with a boisterous laugh.
She would wake up very soon, as she always did. Yet, this time around, and for many nights yet, Galatea thought little of crossing the forest, for here and now, she had all she needed.
* * * * *
Life in the hamlet went on. Winter’s freezing touch may have loomed, yet one could be forgiven to think this was not the case, for as the years went by, not a day was left without some cheer. The harvest this Summer had been good. Buildings stood firm against the elements. And the children flourished, laughing and playing amidst falling leaves. This then was what Galatea saw, as she toiled away, working where she was needed. She still had her duties, that was true. Every morning she would climb up the mountain when no one could see her, eyes upon the expanse, watching in silent vigil. Yet now, when she came down the mountainside, there was more than forest to greet her.
It would begin as Galatea passed by the lumberjack Midsummer, marching into the forest to collect the wood. If need be, she offered him aid, and he would accept. She knew he planned to raise a family, judging from the eye he case upon the longhall’s stew-cook, a pretty face named Evening Rose. A mere glance was understanding enough for her to assist him as he built a new, larger cottage.
Further on was Green Pines, who separated wheat from chaff down at his farm. Living this life, he was not always so green and vibrant as his name, and often did Galatea remind him to take a break from himself, for his dedication was cast in no doubt.
And close to the end of the road, Birdsong would await her arrival. Birdsong, who’d grown in the intervening years, a child who still loved to show off what loom she and her mother had spun. Although the little one’s work was of a rough stitch, Galatea’s practised eye saw the pattern slowly emerging in the threads that one day would weave together, surely as a sprout from a flower bud.
Lastly, and this Galatea looked forward to most, each day there was Broadleaf. Dear, tireless Broadleaf. He’d toil around the hamlet, much like her but past all effort including her own, and never a day did pass that sweat wasn’t shed, or even a drop of blood. It was effort that left him looking rough at day’s end, his coat a tapestry of small cuts both fresh and old, his hooves more chipped than hers, perhaps. She remembered. During their time spent together as he’d lain recovering from his injury, Galatea had taken his grooming upon herself, seeing to it that his mane was kept combed, courtesy of a comb made of dragon-bone, as owned by all in the hamlet. So too had she nursed his pains when they arose, to the best of her skill.
Only in matter of ablutions, for reasons Galatea somehow knew, yet not from where – maybe it was one more of the mysterious gifts imparted on her by Mother – had she understood to keep a wall between them, the matriarch Bright Hearth attending to what was needed.
… Curious. In her years alone in the wilderness, and she knew not how long they had been, Galatea had learned that a deep sleep held a power of renewal over her. When ethereal, her mane had required no brush, no comb. Her scrapes and bruises all faded in time, yes, even the wear upon her hooves. Rain and river-water had sufficed to purge her coat of impurities, and all else she had handled with propriety. But this was one way in which, the longer she spent time with these mortal ponies, their practices became her own, as if by necessity. As they bathed every Saturday, so did she, and Birdsong had offered to braid her mane.
Indeed, these were the days where Galatea saw her mind eye’s turn further outward. As she had not before in the years before, she felt growing awareness of the mortal body. No matter her guise, and those frailties she allowed it, her body was never mortal. In the forest, she had watched the little bird live, age and die. Mortality was part of her watch, not her being. Yet a difference, little by little, had dawned in her perspective, now she walked amongst the ponies as if she were one.
Broadleaf’s recovery had been complete in spirit. But, conceal it though he might, it did not evade Galatea that his injury had lingered on. His strength of will remained, yet the body could not rise nor push forth quite as before. His gait had turned a little slower, his grip a little weaker. It was incremental, yet she saw it, possibly sooner than the ones who’d known him all their lives. She had watched life for long enough.
To all eyes, he remained a mountainous presence. Yet even a mountain can be ground down. Galatea found herself unsure what this meant to her.
Thus, nowadays, one became two, as she joined him in his labour. Often he would fill the time with simple talk, or none at all, should she say she wished to work in silence. It did not matter. His companionship was all Galatea required in order to work on, through the fading light of Autumn, and into the freezing embrace of Winter, as always.
The first Winter they endured was not as cold or biting as the long night of yesteryear. Yet it was harsh enough as it was. Not all were built to survive it. They buried seven of their own before the longest night of the year had arrived.
Neither Galatea nor Broadleaf thought of rest, not when the hamlet needed the warmest embers. So they pulled their weight, cutting firewood, cooking warm meals for the elderly among them, watching over the hamlet’s growing number of babes and young children.
It was no easy task, for day and night this went on. More than once did Broadleaf falter, sleeping long into the night by Galatea’s side. Yet a warm blanket was never far, carried in her hoof, and few would fault her for staying there, unmoving, watching the crackling embers beside her companion.
It was all that she needed.
Then, towards the end of their fifth Winter, came the traveller from the North.
* * * * *
This visitor was unlike any the hamlet had seen. They were taller than any stallion in the village, taller than even Galatea, yet with build and gait more lithe than the most graceful of ponies. Their step was light, and one would not be hard-pressed to picture them darting across the sky, trailing stardust. Small wonder, though, that Galatea found that she recognised the traveller’s kind at a glance, even before she lowered the hood of her silken blue cloak.
The traveller was no pony at all. She was a Reindeer of the North.
Graceful, ethereal, her silver fur shimmered in the light of the setting Winter Sun. Her tranquil green eyes were the shade of evergreen leaves. Slung across her back were a pair of pale saddlebags, woven with fine thread, yet there was no mistaking their rugged nature, from how the weave-pattern looked to Galatea’s eyes.
The adults of the hamlet, Galatea among them, stood by in a half-circle around the doe. The children crowded at the longhall’s top-floor windows. Murmurs grew at the sight of her, hushed whispers amongst the children and a few of the more curious adults. Broadleaf, though, exchanged only a nod and glance with Galatea. Had she still had her wings, they would have been draped over Broadleaf. But for now, standing side by side would have to do.
Before either could step forward and speak aloud, Bright Hearth moved past, standing a stone’s throw away from the doe.
“Welcome to our humble abode,” she said. “My name is Bright Hearth. What brings a Reindeer of Adlaborn here, so far down South?”
The doe gave a deep bow.
“My name is Lilja,” said the silver doe, meeting Bright Hearth’s eyes. “and I come here bearing gifts for all. To comfort in your sorrow, to give reminder in your joy.”
She set down her saddlebags. The sound of bells and wooden tools from within were unmistakeable.
“And what warrants these gifts, friend Lilja?” asked Bright Hearth, eyebrows raised.
Lilja’s smile was calm and serene. Her ears flicked for a moment. “Why, nothing short of the Two Sisters’ name days, my lady.”
* * * * *
Peculiar creatures, Reindeer were. Accomplished magicians of snow and ice, weavers of what they called stardust, the tiny motes of the ethereal flow which surrounded all living things. Galatea had spotted them in the corner of her eye, all her existence. It was her memory’s bookmark, that which made her the Scribe which her Mother had said she’d be. When the children asked Lilja how she had travelled down South, the doe merely pointed towards the skies, and traced circles in the air with a cloven forehoof. How precious were their looks of wonder when she went further, and pranced all around the longhall’s hearth, showering them amidst their cheers in a trail of glittering powder. Joyous laughter thus followed her wherever she went, and Lilja’s tiny, mischievous smile did not escape Galatea’s watchful gaze.
But neither did the doe’s evasiveness, from the moment Bright Hearth had inquired about the two sisters of whom she spoke. All Lilja had to say then, naturally, was that all would be told them in due time, for she had gifts to spread and stories to tell. Few had qualms over this, for Lilja came bearing many gifts indeed, and Galatea paid her no mind once Birdsong received hers – a spool of thread.
Pushing the thought of newborn, strange magical foals to the back of her head, Galatea turned from the wooden balustrade, from which she’d viewed the children huddled around the doe leaving the longhall, to join Broadleaf downstairs at the large oaken table where Lilja had left her gifts. Little remained by then, but even those gifts the other adults had not taken drew Galatea’s notice.
Almost otherworldly, were they, amidst the sparseness of the hamlet. Miniature, wind-up Reindeer figures, driven by springs and gears within. Enchanting, snowflake-marked music boxes. Snowglobes whose contents never seemed to remain still. Along with other, far more functional tools, plows and hammers and sickles, hewn from wood and base metal, yet hardier than stone at one glance.
Most curious of all, however, was the device that rested before Galatea’s eyes. A polished wooden contraption, akin to an obelisk, with a circular face. Twelve notches circled the center.
She turned to look at Broadleaf. As he hadn’t noticed her descend, she cleared her throat.
“Broadleaf?” she asked. Her companion’s eyes darted round to meet hers.
“Yes, Galena?” said Broadleaf, setting down the chisel he was inspecting. “What is your wish?”
She indicated the contraption, drawing his eyes back towards it. He let out a chuckle.
“Oh, this? This is a clock, crafted in an Adlaborn workshop,” said Broadleaf. “Curious little thing, isn’t it? Maple, from the looks of it. Lovely.” He tapped it, once then twice. “Such good artisanship, too! Not something you’d find in an earthpony’s workshop– Oh, pardon me, ahem, it… well, it keeps track of the time. So you know how time passes at night, like it does in the day, without having to map the Sun or the stars… I haven’t seen one of these since I was a child, at a fair...”
"I see," answered Galatea. "And how does it work?"
Broadleaf showed her its markings. As she’d spotted, twelve there were, in all. Three thin arrows pointed to the notches, with the longest and thinnest moving at a steady tick.
“Three hands of the clock here,” he said. “Every time the shortest one moves, a second passes. Once it completes one full circle, sixty seconds long, a minute has passed, and then the second hand moves. And every sixty minutes, an hour has passed, and the shortest hand follows with it.”
She looked at him. “You never told me you could count.”
“Why shouldn’t I?” he asked mildly. “It’s useful. Though, I will admit, it’s a lot easier to count the things you can see. I don’t know how they did it, but the Reindeer… well, they found a way to count time.”
"Fascinating," Galatea said, nodding along. She lifted the clock in her forehooves, looking it over. A sigil of a single snowflake marked the rear. She pondered her next query, if only for a moment. "And... how many seconds are there in eternity?"
Broadleaf blinked, confused.
“Ahem… I... do not know, for sure. That’s a mighty big question of you to ask me...” said Broadleaf, with a shrug of his broad shoulders. “But… perhaps when that mountain is dust with your blows, then one second in eternity will have passed. However long it takes.”
“Perhaps,” Galatea agreed. She put the clock down. “So it shall be.”
He gave her a curious look. “Is that what you were doing, at your mountain?” he said quietly. “Was that a way you were counting time?”
Galatea more than heard his question. She felt it.
“Maybe… I suppose that it was,” she said. “These seconds you speak of… I’d never heard of them before you showed me this clock. But I feel as if, when I close mine eyes and open mine mind, I myself have been able to count them all mine life. That, or something like them.”
Before her unblinking eyes, the image danced of the stardust, that same which the Reindeer left in their trail as, working through a prism of childlike wonder, a conduct as powerful and marvelous and dangerous as water to lightning, they took the seed of mystery and sowed it back into the world.
“Who taught you how to count, Galena?”
“I am not sure that I was taught,” whispered Galatea. “I just… know certain things. But I’ve spent the time since trying to learn more.”
“Well if you say so, my friend,” Broadleaf said, patting her back. “That’s a very long time for you to be grinding down mountains, but every little effort counts, yea?” He looked towards the door, ears flicking. A smile formed, then widened. “Come along, let’s join the others.”
And so they left the clock, ticking away in solitude. But one last musing passed Galatea’s mind.
‘One second in eternity,’ she thinks to herself. ‘That is how long mine duty shall be.’
Her confidence reignited, she joined Broadleaf, walking side by side.
* * * * *
Down the stairs they went, the both of them, till they came across the assembled children, and their parents too, listening to Lilja’s stories. Such wondrous stories, folktales Galatea had not heard from the hamlet’s inhabitants or caught in her secretive travels, she was sure. Stories of great deeds and legendary champions, to join in the warmth of the hearth. She’d arrived at the tail-end of one such story, that of a pegasus named Gusty the Great, vanquishing the evil ram Grogar in ages past. And in this new age, the earthponies could listen to a tale of a pegasus, and hear the tale of a worthy hero.
But of all the stories Lilja had promised, there was none which had caught Galatea’s attention as the one she’d come here pledging to deliver news of. This one was not a fairytale at all, Galatea felt with a mounting, inexorable certitude.
“What of the two sisters?” she blurted, just as Lilja was finishing her story. She’d regretted it, a little, as all eyes turned on her. Broadleaf and Birdsong’s, in particular, bore heavily upon her.
Lilja did not move from where she stood, still as a statue. Until her eyes moved to meet Galatea’s whereupon she smiled.
“I was just getting to them, friend,” said Lilja, with nought a trace of condescension, still in that tranquil, calming tone, “and theirs is a story I’d love to tell.”
She sat down on her haunches, her forehoof drawing a trail of stardust, turned visible to the naked eye within the air, as she’d done before. With a wave off to the side, the light of every hearthfire within the hall dimmed to a soft glow, eliciting a couple of low murmurs and gasps from the attending villagers, till only the crackling light of the fireplace remained undiminished.
“Once, there were three tribes,” said Lilja, tracing a shimmering golden circle in the warm, glowing embers of the fireplace, casting an orange light upon the faces of those watching. “The unicorns, proud mages who seek to uncover the mysteries of the realm...”
From within the circle, prismatic motes shifted into a vision, a pony of glimmering purple, their forehead crowned by a mighty and majestic horn. The conjuration followed in the direction of Lilja’s guiding forehoof, motioning their horn with a graceful flick, which from the tip cast a bright and burning star of flame from the fire itself. The star shot up far, far above, and thereupon it burst in mid-air over them all in a shower of a nameless element, ember-like, its only known property that it glittered and dissipated.
“The pegasi, mighty warriors of the wind and skies.”
Now a jet of blue streaked from the circle, flying all around the room, bouncing to and fro upon clouds of pure, sweet-tasting smoke conjured in a swirl from the fire. The vision of the pegasus came to a halt right above a thin pillar of slow-burning flame, stood where all could see without ever touching the ground, and bowed. Mysteriously, the clatter of armor resounded softly throughout the hall, its source wholly opaque.
“Finally, the earthponies. You,” said Lilja, and this time around, she gazed upon them all, beaming with pride and affection, “hardy workers, caretakers of the land and all life within it.”
A robust earthpony emerged, the motes that composed the vision turning green in colour, carrying a rake over their shoulder. They tilted their head, politely and maybe inquiringly, as a forest sprouted all around their tall-standing figure. As a display, it was low-key compared to that which had come before, yet Galatea silently took stock of the crowd, and saw that several of the adults in the group were nodding along.
“So long as the three act in concert,” said Lilja, her voice carried by the wind, though the door to the longhall was shut and the upstairs windows now barred for the evening, “as the three tribes tendeto their domains, provide care for one another, then balance shall be kept. But for far too long in our times, it had not, and malice and bitterness took hold of many hearts.”
Anger, jealousy, bitter fighting. The three visions scattered in the aftermath of battle.
Here Galatea drew a sharp breath. She had witnessed this before. Saw how the land suffered. This she had concluded to be a deep wrong. And yet she had wondered if she denied what centuries had shown her eyes. Life, struggling, in conflict with itself. Her Mother’s gifts granting her that she be shielded from most of what she’d seen that creatures feared – starvation, predation, disease and death. But gifts that had made her alone in this.
Lilja took a deep breath, then blew apart the motes gathered in the air, as if they’d never been.
“They fled the endless Winter much as they fled one another,” the doe whispered, as suddently the flames turned blue, a pale blue which cast no heat. Spirits of ice and snow emerged from what the fire had become, their jaws opened wide in mute shrieks and screams. “And still the three tribes’ leaders refused to yield to one another.”
Six ponies emerged from the circle, two from each of the tribes. Three of these visibly argued with one another, even as their companions cried out with no voice, mute as the malign spirits which swhirled ominously above, unseen. The companions still sought desperately to the belligerent three of an approaching danger. But it was to no avail, for soon they were frozen, until only the three companions remained, huddled together.
The room had fallen silent by now. Lilja twirled her forehooves, drawing from a cluster of glittering motes up high.
“But in this hour, there came providence. Within that cave, the fire of friendship grew bright from one single spark,” said Lilja. Before their eyes, a pillar of light, shining bright from the three faithful companions, hurtled against the alarmed spirits and along with it, the audience saw, the fire returned from a cool blue to hot, crackling orange. “And in that cave… they appeared.”
Two foals, holding one another, fast asleep. One, the larger of the two, with their coat of white, shined warm as the rising Sun, the very Sun her flank was marked with. The other glowed a tranquil midnight blue, a bright Moon upon her flank. The three ponies of stardust watched on in awe. And so did the assembly, too enraptured to speak.
But it was their forms that struck Galatea the most. A pair of wings and a single horn on each. Two ponies, bearing wings and a horn at once, wholly marked from their birth, like no other..
Save for one.
“Two sisters. Sun and Moon. Celestia and Luna, as named by the Allfather,” Lilja said, her smile the warmest it had ever been. “Blessings of Harmony, given to us unto this realm. Two sisters that carry within them the magic of all the three tribes, to guide the celestial bodies above, when they come of age. In our northern land, they reside still, until their time is here, and under the guidance and protection of us all shall they blossom.”
Galatea had scarcely heard her, for her eyes remain fixed upon the vision of these two ethereally glowing figures. Her body gone rigid, her breath held longer than it should. Until the two foals faded into the empty air around them. She silently begged them not to go, holding her gaze as long as she could on where they’d been. But the light of the longhall’s fires returned as one, and the afterimage was dispelled from Galatea’s sight, just one more memory in her treasury, perfectly preserved in form yet unreachable to the touch.
It was amidst the villages’ clapping that Galatea heard herself speak aloud. Too loud, for her.
“How do you know so much?” she demanded, barely aware that Broadleaf and Birdsong were looking startled by her voice. “How can you speak of them with such familiarity?”
Lilja let out a hearty laugh. “I beheld them with my own eyes, a week or so after they were born! I had been sent to find them, to carry them to our land in the North. Beneath the light and the blessings of the Aurora, I saw two wonderful children fated to rank as the best of us.”
She stood to her tallest height, head held up beatifically, eyes twinkling with wonder, like stars in unclouded skies.
“In time” said Lilja, triumph laced within her words, “you shall see them rise as the protectors of the realms, above and below, from one horizon to the other.”
She was greeted by the cheers of many, the rapturous sounds of celebration and joy.
None, however, paid notice to the quiet watchmare among them, pondering the names like no name in this village, as the snow continued to fall outside the longhall.
* * * * *
Little else did Lija do for the next two days, other than continue using the longhall as her haunt. Or, at least, this was the impression Galatea reached. If it hadn’t been for Broadleaf reminding her on the third morning, she’d have missed Lilja’s departure that afternoon entirely. Warm goodbyes were exchanged beneath the sunshine, Lilja giving them all her blessing one last time. With a spring in her step, the doe soared above, the laughter of the children following her on her resumed travels as she awarded them a final shower of glitter, gleaming in the Sun.
One by one, the villagers returned to this quiet interval of their lives, their hearts warmed, carrying only the not trivial regret that some had not lived to see the traveller from the North. For one short while, too short although it stayed with them forevermore, Winter had ceased to mean a period of hard-learned patience and survival, a reminder of the darkest time in their people’s brief history.
An ultimate promise on the doe’s lips, peculiar to hear, and yet bearing the ring of truth, had been that in times to come, the Winter itself would be a domain of ponies’ nurture, just as the land was in the fertile months to the earthponies.
The doe became but a distant mark in the skies, like the wind that still blew above the treeline, their shelter against the worst of its bite at this time of year. Only Galatea remained outside in the snow, her eyes fixed on the North long after Lilja had disappeared from sight. Her thoughts, ordinarily so purposeful and orderly, were awash with a mad scramble of images. The Northern land of Adlaborn. Steadily ticking clocks. Two strange little foals.
As Winter continued, though Spring lay around the corner, these became all she could think of.
From then on, Galatea’s stay in the hamlet faded into a blur that had nothing to do with routine. By day, or by night. Two sisters, Sun and Moon, bearing wings and a horn, marked by the celestial bodies they were meant to ferry across the heavens. Two names that echoed throughout her mind, alluring her so very much. Celestia and Luna.
Her work around the hamlet grew slower, she slept longer hours, and as she turned away all offers of assistance, she felt her companions’ eyes upon her, as her daydreams carried on. None, not Bright Hearth, not little Birdsong, nor even Broadleaf, could pry answers out of her.
Who were the two children? Who had their parents been? The questions lingered, tempting her with answers that lay beyond this dwelling of hers. This home. All that Galatea could ascertain was that she was no longer alone, in this realm. Never again would she look up, wondering if this was her burden and solely her burden to bear, or if there were others like her.
The Spring thaw brought with it a rejuvenated land. Lilja’s gifts had endured for all who had received them. Amidst the Spring bloom, when she could no longer ignore her curiosity, Galatea went to see the only pony she truly trusted, and told him what he needed to know.
* * * * *
“Leaving?”
Broadleaf’s eyes widened, and he paused in his chiselling. Galatea winced, slightly. The surprise in his tone prompted her to wonder if perhaps she had miscalculated. But there was no turning back now.
Galatea drew a deep breath. She found it difficult to meet him, eye to eye. Yet she managed, and pressed on.
“Yes,” said Galatea, keeping her voice even, “I am leaving. The Spring thaw is here, and the roads up North should be safe to traverse.”
Her companion rubbed the back of his head. “But, I don’t understand. Why? What’s happened? Are you alright?”
The three questions she hoped that he wouldn’t ask, so it would seem, were precisely the ones he had to asked. Galatea bit her lips. It wasn’t so easy after all.
“Broadleaf, it’s… I… I must see them,” she whispered, pawing at the straw-covered floor of his little cottage. Their cottage, she almost thought of it as. For though the mountain nook continued to be her place of rest, her time spent in here with him had left its mark. “The two sisters whom Lilja spoke of.”
When Broadleaf looked no less confused than prior, Galatea shook her head. “There are answers I seek. And… and I’m sorry, but I cannot tell why, as of yet. I just… I know I must see them.”
Broadleaf stood to his full height, meeting Galatea’s eyes. Warm and so very kind, yet Galatea realised she could not bear to look into them for long.
“I don’t understand. Don’t you… weren’t you happy here?” he inquired, his voice gentle and soft, tinged with growing sorrow. Why did he have to make it so very difficult? So many questions passed her mind now.
Now, however, upon sighting the crestfallen look of her companion, she spoke up at last.
“I was, and I am,” said Galatea. “And… and I shall endeavour to return. I promise.”
Another pause. The weight of her words started to press down on her. In the silence, her ears caught a distinct ticking sound, and this was her excuse to glance away, momentarily. The clock from Lilja’s passage stood on the crude strone mantelpiece of Broadleaf’s cottage. Since the time when the doe had departed, Galatea had never asked what he’d picked for a gift. She’d assumed he would choose the chisel.
But the chisel he’d been using to hew a cairn-rock was old. Never had she expected that he would bring the clock home with him.
“I’ll miss you,” whispered Broadleaf Heart. “More than anything.”
“Then come with me,” Galatea said. Her forehoof reached out for Broadleaf’s. “Come with me to the North. We’d have so much to see. And… and don’t you want to hear mine story?”
Something passed behind her companion’s eyes. Perhaps a flash of wonder, or longing. In all five years they’ve known one another, she had not told him her story, nor did he tell his. Yet the moment passed just as it appeared.
“No… no,” said Broadleaf. Galatea felt her shoulders sink. “Much as I want to join your side, my place is here, Galena. I cannot turn away, not when they still need me.”
Galatea opened her mouth to retort, but found no words that came to mind. Then Broadleaf turned his gaze away, and for but a moment, Galatea wondered if she had misspoken.
“Birdsong!” he called out. “It’s time.”
Soft hooves tapped against the door, breaking her attention. Galatea blinked at the sight of Birdsong as she came scurrying in. Perhaps she had been waiting outside. On her back, she brought with her cloth. But it was no ordinary cloth, Galatea saw, as the little weaver now stood on her hindlegs, holding the cloak in her mouth.
Wordlessly, Galatea took it from her. Finely-woven, yet resilient, she could tell, of a dark, pleasantly loamy brown shade that reminded Galatea much of this little hamlet. The thread was unexpectedly smooth to the touch, but the fine quality of the thread belied its true purpose.
A travelling cloak.
“Master Broadleaf asked me to help weave it,” said Birdsong, the nervous tap of her forehooves muffled by the straw of the floor. “The Reindeer lady had some nice threads. I hope you like it.”
Galatea knelt down to pat the girl, gently and yet to her, painful somehow. “You’ve grown, Little Bird,” she whispered, admiring the woven cloak. It brought a smile to Birdsong, and that was enough.
Standing up, she turned to Broadleaf. He wore a tiny smile.
“A gift, my friend. You picked none. Yet a nomad like you,” the stallion said quietly, “deserves a cloak as hardy and elegant as she is.”
Galatea said nothing to that, her hindlegs frozen in place while a forehoof held the cloak up, to the dim light of the door. Then, very delicately, she set it down and closed the distance between them, unmindful of Birdsong’s presence, giving her companion a long, warm nuzzle.
“Thank you.”
* * * * *
The day of Galatea’s departure was a quiet one. There was little she carried with her, only provisions for a few weeks’ worth. She’d assured the villagers, though, that she was experienced in scrounging for nourishment in the vast wilderness beyond their borders. She had come to them living that life, and now she returned to it.
Upon her insistence, only a few villagers went to see her off. That did not stop any from waving goodbye as she passed them by, each and every single one whom she’d met through the seasons, from Midsummer and Evening in their bew cottage, to Green Pines at his farm, all of them…
Wrapped in her new travelling cloak, Galatea paused at the hamlet’s borders, turning around to meet those who had come this far with her. Bright Hearth, spry in her twilight years, insisted on her presence, despite Midsummer’s protests, beaming like a mare many years younger. Birdsong, following her as she so often did, eyes full of wonder and curiosity.
And, of course, ever reliable, ever trustworthy, Broadleaf Heart. He stood there, flanked by the other two villagers, his proud smile still there, as Bright Hearth and Birdsong said goodbye. Bright Hearth had a few words of wisdom, and though Galatea knew to keep herself sharp, she nonetheless appreciated the advice. To the village matriarch, she must have looked so young. Then, little Birdsong, mumbled an apology for her carelessness leading to Broadleaf’s injury, so long ago it seemed, at which Galatea merely nodded and ruffled her mane.
But Broadleaf’s words were not what she expected.
“Won’t you stay for one last night, Galena?” Different in words, there was no doubt left of what they– he wished for.
“You know I cannot,” said Galatea, shaking her head. “And… I am sorry for that.”
Broadleaf nodded. He moved closer to her, smiling.
"Will you return?" he asked, a repeat of the very same question from a few nights ago. This time, Galatea’s answer came quickly.
"I will," said Galatea. A moment’s pause. “And... I will stay, once I do, Broadleaf. We’ll have stories to share when I come back.”
“That we will. Then, fair maiden,” said Broadleaf, warmth emanating from his voice, his smile only widening.. He reached out, and held her forehoof in his. “I will wait for you."
“I shall return,” Galatea replied, feeling her hooves stiffen. “I promise.”
There wasn’t much else she could say. Her throat ran dry. Her hooves stiffened further. It was now or never.
She let go of Broadleaf, with a gentle, longing smile to answer for his.
It was when she was to cross the forest’s edge that she did look back, to behold the tiny hamlet with her eyes, and the three ponies that stood there, waving at her, their remaining well-wishes unspoken yet heartfelt. Perhaps a part of her wanted to say something then. Perhaps he wanted to as well. But she steeled her resolve. Away in the North, there awaited the two who may be the only ones who could know her, truly, as she was.
Tightening the cloak around her body, Galatea turned away from the first place she’d found to call home, and disappeared into the forest.
