It was a delicate morn.
The sun rose, and it banished Luna’s stars into obscurity until the night and the moon would return once more. For the meantime, the great object began to dominate its kingdom, a sky golden and pure as the laughter of children. Rays of light rotated around the celestial orb as it climbed its way higher up the heavens for all to see.
Feather Dew liked the mornings. He would describe himself more as a night owl, but he loved the tender moments before a sunrise as the atmosphere of a late evening remained, a window between light and dark, the hint of the star’s light on the horizon. He also longed for the smell of morning grass, wet and new, fresh, as if looking forward to seizing the day.
And he too ought to look forward to seizing the day—or rather the moment—but a strange emotion bubbled inside of him. As he wandered the halls of a treehouse, slow in his gait, he couldn’t avoid that nervousness that seemingly haunted him, following right behind his back, as if a ghost.
He tried to distract his mind from its own thoughts by observing his surroundings, but the universe seemed unkind to him, for the more he became aware of the world around him, the more aware he became of himself.
Feather was—admittedly—a tad nervous. That feeling grew the more steps he took, the closer he got to his destination. What would he even tell the Shaman? He didn’t know if he had all the answers or if he was even going to know what he’s pondering about. He’d probably see me as a bit of a loon. Well, to be fair, he is the one serving the entheogens all around.
No, actually. I suppose it’s not fair for me to say that about him. I don’t want to be rude. Who knows what kind of stuff he’s seen or knows?
The pegasus continued to wander the treehouse—sunlight filtering through periodic windows to meet with aged wood—until he came across a mare who seemed to appreciate the sun’s warmth, basking, her head perched out a window. She had her wings splayed out in apparent relaxation.
“Um, excuse me, but you are Solar Ray, right?”
The mare tucked her head back indoors, casting him a glance before her eyes lit in recognition. “Yes, I am. I assume you are Sir Feather Dew, am I wrong?”
Flattered he was at her calling him a “Sir,” but he pressed on notwithstanding. “Yes, I am. You can just call me Feather, by the way. Can you please take me to the Shaman now?”
“Why, of course I can, Feather. Right this way.” She waved at him with a flick of her tail as she rounded the corridor corner, Feather following her lead.
He noticed she was humming merrily as she trotted her way through the treehouse, the two finding themselves crossing a rope bridge. Feather was amazed at how calm she seemed while moving her way through the wooden planks below her, barely even taking a glance to look at her hooves despite the sway of the mercurial structure.
Arriving at another tree house, Feather noted that this was much smaller than the others but much more elaborately decorated. He noticed motifs on the walls, a few paintings here and there, odd instruments and maps littered amongst the wooden furniture of the hallway they traversed through.
The pair arrived in front of a door with some symbols engraved on it Feather couldn’t understand.
“I have brought you to the Shaman’s room.” She turned and knocked on the wooden door thrice. The two paused for a second before the mare spoke up again, “That means the Shaman is ready.”
Feather was confused. “But he didn’t answer the door, though?”
Solar Ray gave a simple nod. “He tells us when we are disturbing him. Trust me, no reply means that he is ready.” Without even giving him a chance to think of her words, she grabbed the doorknob and twisted it, opening the door for him to enter.
Well, here goes nothing. Thanking Solar Flare for her time, Feather Dew crossed the threshold and was immediately blanketed by a pacific tranquility.
What he first noticed was that this room was an open space; there was a large opening that reached ceiling to floor at the edge of the area, between solid footing and a presumably large drop. He did notice ropes that acted as a safety measure, though, as to not let a careless soul plummet to an unfateful demise.
The second thing he noticed was all the bookshelves—a few by the walls, a few at the center of the room. There were tables placed strategically throughout the space, books left open on their surfaces, bookmarks peeking out both open and closed pages. Those are a large number of books to be keeping track of.
The ceiling was covered by beautiful sheets that danced in the wind, and Feather Dew thought of himself as dumb for not even considering the idea before, much less notice them sooner. Hey, those look cool.
“Ah, welcome. I see you have noticed my sheets. I like them too. It moves with the wind and reminds me that it is alive.”
Feather turned his head to see the Shaman, giving him a courtly smile. He didn’t have his regular clothing on—it seemed to be for ritualistic purposes only. Feather let his mind off that, though, for the Shaman said something more interesting about the wind.
“You say the wind is alive?” That’s an interesting thought.
“Why yes, of course. I do believe that the wind is alive. But I have these sheets up to remind me that the wind is such because we often forget it even exists at all.”
“That is very true,” Feather Dew responded, seemingly out of instinct more than actual thought, glancing around. “The wind can sometimes be forgotten.”
The Shaman agreed by nodding, stepping to his side. “People forget that the wind exists because it is invisible. It cannot be seen. It can only be felt.” Feather walked with him as the two headed to the edge. From here, Feather Dew could see the large expanse of the Amarezon rainforest as clearly as he could see it.
The shine of the morning was still only young. From this view, the flora and trees didn’t completely obstruct the views below the tree tops, and so Feather could clearly see the Amarezon floor from here. It was a snapshot of a much larger picture, a perfectly composed portrait of a seemingly never-ending world.
The Shaman turned to him from the forest view. “I know you have come to seek answers. What is it you want to ask me?”
Feather answered quickly, “I wanted to ask you about your ancestors. Your ancients.” He wanted to start simply first, and what better way to start a conversation but with the pride of one’s people?
“Ah yes, my ancestors. Quite controversial, from what I have heard, but I respect them nonetheless. What do you want to know about them?”
Feather stopped for a moment. He didn’t know where to go from here; perhaps he only thought of how to start the conversation as opposed to the conversation itself. Stuttering a tad, he said, “I want to know where your brew comes from.”
The Shaman regarded him. “My brew? You’re interested in the origins of the brew?”
“Yes, I am. It’s very fascinating, Ohteotl. I wanted to know where it came from, and what better way to learn it from than from the ponies that actually make it?”
And it seemed the Shaman was pleased with the statement for he gave a smile, sitting his rump on the floor. Feather sat down as well to be respectful and to maintain the same eye level with somepony who was clearly older than he was.
“Our brew has been passed down from generations to generations. Once, in the great city-states such as Tetzpono, priests would offer this brew in ceremonies. Ponies today may think of Ohteotl as something that represents death, the end. But our ancestors looked at it the other way around—they saw this brew as a supplement to living.”
“I haven’t necessarily thought of it that way before. You are indeed correct. Ponies look at this beverage as if it were some glimpse into life after death, but your ancestors saw it more as a supplement for improving their lives.”
The Shaman nodded. “Yes. But as generations passed, and with the fall of our great city-states and populations in general, Ohteotl has been struggling to survive for centuries.
“Nothing can last forever, and even Ohteotl itself has been scrutinized and doomed to the history books.” The Shaman waved a hoof at the numerous bookshelves and books laying here and there. “I wonder if it’ll even be around after a hundred years.”
“Well, that is very unfortunate. It’s just a wonder how an experience so profound and life changing as this can be so relatively unknown to most of the world.”
“It’s because ponies don’t believe in it anymore. They don’t believe in us anymore. With the advancements of the world you live in, it’s a wonder we’re still around this whole time. People change, and traditions and languages live, thrive, then die out.”
Feather suddenly felt sad, and even guilty to an extent. “I have thought about our technological advancement, but I haven’t thought of the fact that there are folks out there that don’t believe you. It’s out of ignorance, I assume.”
“It is, and there’s the factor that a lot of ponies don’t know about us in the first place. We are the old world. We are the world that has left its prime long ago. It happens to all civilizations. Some are just born into ones that are in their highs, oftentimes not.” He gestured to his own being.
“I do understand.” The thought then seeped into his mind suddenly, and he realized what he was truly here for: to ask him the question that has been nagging him since last night. “I wanted to ask you something else, though. The real reason why I am here.”
The Shaman’s ears turned in curiosity. “What do you want to ask of me?”
Feather Dew hesitated for a moment before continuing. “I saw something in my experiences that I can’t explain. It’s as if it’s telling me to do something; that I have a purpose I have yet to fulfill. Is it... accurate to say that my psyche is telling me to do something?”
The Shaman turned to look out the window, sighing. “I honestly do not get that question often, funnily enough. Our guests always speak of their experiences as something of an epiphany. You’re one of the rarities... Actually, I don’t recall asking for your name.”
I always forget! “Oh! My name is Feather Dew. What’s your name?”
“Ochre Meadow, but you can refer to me as Ochre. As I was saying, you seem to be a rarity. Everypony else realizes the secrets their minds keep, but you seem to be more... confused. It seems that you are confused. Tell me, what’s bothering you?”
Feather Dew hesitated again. Did he truly want to tell the Shaman about what he saw? About her? What would that even mean? Would it be insincere but in his right to not tell him the whole truth?
“I... I kept seeing this pony. She... I don’t know if she reached out to me or if there’s something in me that reached out to her, but I do indeed see her. It was real. I can’t explain it so well, but it’s like I’m a celestial body coming closer to another celestial body because of gravity.”
The Shaman didn’t reply, nodding his head as if to say keep going.
“I saw many strange things, visions of snakes and molecules, but that seemed to be the strangest out of them all. It was just this mare I kept on seeing. I felt her touch, and she was... really gentle. She had the loveliest voice I have ever heard. It felt so grounded. It felt real. I don’t know why I see her, but I do! I feel like in some way, she sees me, too.”
“It is all real, Feather Dew. What we experience in this world is only a facet of the sum of reality. There are things we cannot sense, dimensions we cannot interface, and emotions we cannot even begin to describe.
“What I tell you is this; you have to figure out the reason yourself. There is something within the both of you that draws you both together—a connection. You have to figure out why that connection is there. Did she do something to you or did you do something to her? Ask these things to yourself, and oftentimes we can’t have all the answers. All you have to do is be mindful and keep looking, keep going.”
“I try to ask myself. I ask myself whether or not these visions even matter. I... I feel like it does, y’know. It’s like I’m bound to her in ways I don’t completely understand.”
“Oftentimes, it does not matter where one comes from. You need to understand her impact on you, because you have been shown that in some way, she is of great importance. Feather Dew, this girl, does she truly matter to you?”
“I... I dream of a lot of things. I like dreaming about feelings more than anything else. I’m not sure why, or if I just remember those dreams better than all the others. I like the fuzzy feeling of barely remembering a dream, though, but having the emotions sort of retain. It’s something that I can feel in my heart, the nervous energy on my hooves pulsating outwards.”
He felt nervous and yet familiar with what he was talking about. Feather was trying his best to hold it together, forget about his anxieties for a minute and just breathe and let the words come out of you, Feather. If it’s not for you, then it’s for her. You can do this.
She blinked. The mare had a blank expression on her face as she stared at him for a moment. “Dreams. It is such... a strange thing. To think that one falls asleep and is suddenly transported to a whole new world sounds absurd.”
Feather Dew expected for her to say something more, but alas, she paused and seemed to wait for him to talk again. This is what he noticed when she talked to him: she didn’t do it much at all. It made him uneasy to be put in the spotlight, but he knew he needed to be patient—for the both of them.
“It does sound absurd, but it is something that happens to us. The thing is that we don’t necessarily remember them well. We sort of wake up and it slowly starts to escape us. What some of us remember is how it feels, though. There’s this strange sensation specific to that moment, when we wake up. It’s... it is as if there were a cup full of water that is so close to spilling, but it never seems to.”
The mare stood a fair bit away from him, and it made him sad somehow. He had been, admittedly, very committed to this subject matter, and so he found it easier to talk about. But it was as if she were a boulder that just wouldn’t budge, an immovable rock on an uncaring beach that seemed to be frozen since the beginning of time.
It was as if the mare was a scared dog that needed comfort but didn’t trust anything or anyone to even come close to it. He wanted to get closer to her, but he knew he needed to set his boundaries, both physically and metaphorically.
She blinked again, and he truly did wonder if it was out of hesitation, overthinking, or boredom. Somehow, he thought of the latter as the worst option: it would be tragic if that were the case.
“I... understand that feeling. It’s the feeling of anticipation without knowing what to be anxious about or if there is even a threat at all.”
He allowed himself to beam at his success, their success. “Yes! It’s precisely like that. I have a hard time understanding how to describe it to ponies; my metaphors and descriptions change all the time, but that’s the feeling I get.”
The mare suddenly stepped a tad closer to him. “It’s... to define is to limit, and dreams seem to go even the limits of the mind itself.”
Feather expected her to add to that comment, but she merely rescinded, tucking her front hooves together from her sitting position. He sighed a bit. Try hard he can elaborate, and determined he can be, but if she wanted not to communicate, then it would be all over. He needed ideas. Feather thought of how he could try to revive their dying conversation.
What if I try to tell her one of my dreams? She could even pick! He lauded his own quick thinking with a simple smile as he explained, “How about I try to tell you one of my dreams? What kind of dream would you like me to tell you?”
She thought of it for a while, putting a hoof under her chin in contemplation. It seemed she wouldn’t answer at all until she declared, “The strangest one.”
“The strangest one.” He absorbed her request into his mind, looking around his brain’s inner bookcases for any strange dream he might’ve remembered. What was the weirdest dream I’ve ever had? He could talk about the dream wherein his mom thought he was his father from being drunk, or he could talk about the dream where everything was upside down and sideways; he could even talk about that dream of him at a party...
No. He couldn’t. He wouldn’t. That would be rude. It wouldn't... it doesn’t... that doesn’t sound like a good idea for now. And so he shelved the idea in a bookcase in his brain, satisfied that he stopped himself before he went with it. Who knows what could have happened had gone with it?
Another idea popped into his head and Feather suddenly remembered the details of a memory that came to him. “I’ve thought of one. This dream is particularly strange to me because it was so random.
“There was no sun, and yet it seemed to be the afternoon. The sky was clear. I was outside, wandering between buildings on the sidewalk. I saw no one else around; there was no sign of any wind. I couldn’t see any signs of life at all: no sounds of the marketplace, no hollering, no clatter of hooves, not even the chirps of birds or the buzzing of bugs.
“I kept walking and walking for what seemed to be an eternity until I eventually arrived in front of a rather comical sign.”
“What did the sign say?” The curiosity of the mare made her head tilt to the side a tad, her ears perking.
He let himself a small smile. “It said, ‘This is your longest dream: 5 hours, 27 minutes, 42 seconds.’”
She scrunched up her nose. “That... seems quite... strange?”
“But let me go further. That’s not the most random element of my dream. The most random thing about my dream was that everything was green tinted, and I only realized everything was green tinted after I read that sign.”
The mare seemed to try to piece the puzzle together. “The epiphany only came to you once you read the sign. What happened after that?”
Feather shrugged. “I realized I was dreaming and immediately shot awake. To be frank, I was really confused when I first woke up. It’s as if my mind was playing a sick joke on me, though.”
“You had an interesting dream. I cannot recall having a dream that interesting, myself.”
He nodded. “I understand that some ponies cannot remember all their dreams. If you think about it, everypony seems to forget more dreams than they can remember. Who knows how many dreams we’ve had and what they may contain?”
And a certain sorrow washed over her by that statement, though she attempted to shake off the sentiment as quickly as it came. “I... wonder that, too. How we are thrust into a wholly familiar but unfamiliar world that... we let go.”
“We let go?” Feather was confused by that.
It seemed that he activated something inside of her that he didn’t quite know, didn’t quite understand. It was the face of recognition that graced her face, a lapse in her mood at the mention of Feather’s words that made him uneasy.
She elaborated, a soft but strong tone in her voice, “I... We forget. We forget dreams and the lives we lived in them. We often forget the wonders we see and the ponies we have met. There are special moments that get lost to the sands of time that cannot be taken back. I... It is hard to let go if it means so much... but...
We both know it happens anyway.”
Feather felt a pang of sadness grow in him as she recoiled slowly, possibly from her own words. His heartbeat quickened. “Hey, I... understand that. It reminds me of the saying, ‘The important things are always the hardest.’” He wanted to say more, but he didn’t know what. There were things bubbling inside of him he couldn’t fully cognize.
She seemed to have dropped the subject as she only sighed.
Her already obscured visage became even more so as she turned away, glancing downwards. The mare’s ears drooped and she fluttered her eyes closed. Even during sadness, there was a beautiful gentleness to her. The only way to know if she was even alive was through the presence of the fall and rise of her delicate chest.
He didn’t know what to do. It would be rude to go up to her and just pat her on the back and say ‘Everything will be fine,’ would it? They had barely known each other in the first place; he had to remind himself of that. But what else could he do, just stand there and let her be that way?
It seemed to be the answer for now, not saying anything. Sometimes the best thing to do was to do nothing at all.
“I won’t ask anything more from you,” Feather only said, her ears perking from that. She said nothing else.
And the two sat in complacent silence, feeling some energy force them apart, like magnets facing each other with the same poles. She was right. Silence was the loudest scream there was. It crept up between them and pushed the two apart.
It was agonizing. Feather felt like he could have done more in their conversation, could have done something else. He didn’t know what made his heart thrash in his chest, the change in her tone of voice or the static void that was taking over his hearing.
What now?
“Will... do you want to come back?”
And at that moment the static void departed, her words echoing in his head. Do you want to come back? It surprised him, the fact that he somehow expected the question yet knew not of how to respond. It was as simple as a “yes” or a “no,” but Feather knew that things didn’t quite work that way.
When she looked back at him, she seemed to have a regret and a hope: a regret that she may have said things that scared him, put him off, drove him away; a hope that despite all of that, Feather would return, Feather would come back, that there would be a next time to yearn for.
Through one way or another, he did also want that.
“Yes.”
The other sentiments he wanted to voice out were most probably for another conversation, another day.