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// Sieve of the Incontinent 
// Story: The Hero's Journey 
// by Gabriel LaVedier 
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	The two stallions plunged into the valley, the old zebra moving in an odd fashion which made no sense to Big Mac until the first gust of wind hit him almost with the force of a griffin's fist. The old stallion was moving in a way that minimized the wind, picking a more careful path out of the wind-carved rock walls and floors. He was almost gracefully dancing with the wind as it blew. “Uh, if'n ya don't mind mah askin' sir... can y'all tell me how it is yer a-doin' that?”
“Practice.” The zebra dodged around several spots on the ground, after checking to the sides.
“Practice...” When Big Mac reached the same spots he actually looked aside, and noticed the wind-carved divots. He moved in a way that avoided them, feeling only the wake of the wind as it rushed over his head or past his back. “An' knowing what ya gotta see, right?”
“Knowing what must be seen is a vital in any aspect of your life, young one. As is what must not be seen. It will all help you someday.” At last they reached the floor of the canyon, which was slightly rounded from where the wind had carved it down into almost a channel leading off in the direction of the blowing tempest. “You will not, I presume, stay among the cliffs of tempest. There is one important thing to remember. No retreating. If you back away, you will never move forward again.”
“What? What kinda rule is that fer a place?” The red stallion pushed through the rushes of wind that pushed at him, trying to drive him off to the side.
“It is a rule that exists. That is all you need to know. At least you will know...” His guide leaped onto a rocky shelf and started to climb, clinging tight and pressing down on the stony surface to present little surface to the blowing gale.
'”Spose so.” Big mac climbed slowly, much more sedately. He may have been younger than the zebra but his bulk was an inescapable reality. Muscular as it was, it was the kind of slow-acting muscle designed for explosive power in concentrated areas. 'No need ta ask questions 'bout the place. It will be what it will be. Jes gotta take it as it is.'
“A fortunate circumstance is, if you only look and think, you can cross this swirling tempest by merely moving forward. And no matter how far you might go to the right and left you just need to go through the storm-carved valley. You should be glad you're not a pegasus; they try to fly over. That is just another form of incontinence.” He shook his head as he walked along and into a cave that looked just wide enough for some one the size of Big Macintosh. “Cheating shows you are not, in any way, serious.”
“Right you are, sir.” Big Mac wasn't wholly sure about that. Sometimes... corners got cut and rules bent. If his future sister-in-law was anything to go by, stretching things was a way to show the pony cared enough to try. But he could see the old stallion's point. In some things, cheating was a sign you were not worthy of the prize. And in love, cheating was the ultimate betrayal.
“No need to be so formal to me, young one.” The cave twisted and turned but did, eventually, lead out to the other side. The revelation was hardly encouraging, it showed only more windswept canyon space. “I know you are not totally convinced. But that's perfectly fine. Just keep following the rules you know and you will trot the path perfectly.”
Big Mac emerged with a scowl. He had barely entered it and he already hated the stormy environment. And not knowing how far it was across just made it all the worse. “It ain't the kindest place, is it? Not much threat'a somepony stoppin' here fer a spell, or even ta stay. Guess there's less temptin'.”
His guide shook his head a bit, not quite responding to what was said. “The cutting gale. The rush and tempest of the wind. There is some small favor in that it is all purely physical. Presumably.” He slowly made his way down a sliding rock face, using the stick to brace himself. “The journey is short, but the way hard. The temptation comes from cheating. Shortcuts and bypasses. Admission that what has been made to reach the limit of endurance and no more, is too much.”
There was considerably more skidding and tumbling when the heavy stallion made the trip down himself, a little worried look breaking his neutral features. “Ain't gotta worry none 'bout me. Ah gots too much respect fer the rules ta be a cheater like that.” He reached the bottom with a heavy clop of his hooves, the rocks around echoing with the noise until it was swept away by the roar of wind.
“I'm sure you do.” They were at a dead end. A large cliff met them, almost polished smooth by the howling wind. It curved slightly, the reddish stone looking less like a natural cliff and more like a scooter ramp. “Don't let it fool you. It's terraced. There are hoofholds. It's not much to go up but it is not forgiving the other way.”
“How far?” Big Mac called. The tempest was growing, as if it was alive, and eager to halt him.
“Over this and you reach a winding path up to the slough. That's your next destination.” The zebra casually yelled with great force, then put hoof and stick to work, climbing the seemingly-smoothly-curved cliff.
The red stallion was very unused to being made to look like a greenhorn. With his commanding bulk, quiet mystery, pearls of wisdom and general competence he was looked on as a pretty big wheel in Ponyville. But the wide world was no Ponyville; strange places beyond normal reaches were well past regular. But if the old man could do it, he could. With a grunt of effort and determined will he tackled the curved face, sending his hooves down solidly to seek the promised purchase.
The heavy hooves met the rock and slid down slightly until they caught on a lip just large enough to support the wide spread. Closer to it and no longer squinting in the rush of the gale, Big Mac could see past the optical illusion and noticed that the curved face was, as stated, covered with juts and shelves to serve as hoofholds for an ascent. Pulling himself onto the cliff with a tremble, he moved for the next hold.
As he stretched out his body to catch a higher hold the wind swept up and through his collar, almost clutching Smarty-Pants and dragging her out before he could drop his chin to keep her down. She tumbled about in the wind, caught a cross breeze from a jutting rock feature and then tumbled to the ground, at a place lower than the one on which Big Mac stood.
There was a moment, a long and terrible moment, Big Mac looking down and aside in horror, while his guide, who had reached the top of the wall, looked down with a piercing gaze. “Not. One. Step. Back.” His voice carried, even in the wind, stern and sure, while his eyes narrowed, hardening into almost a tangible stare.
Big Mac hesitated a bit longer, before he started to climb again, looking side to side at the various holds he could choose. After only a few upward steps he turned himself, pulling himself to a side-hold, bring his rear hooves up to a level shelf. After awkwardly shuffling along the narrow, short holds he slipped to the side just a touch, all four hooves suddenly taking a hard grip where they were, wedging him there, whole body trembling in effort as his muscles struggled with the herculean task of keeping that muscular frame stable.
With a loud snort and a determined huff he launched himself forward, landing as intended on another set of long, narrow lips. With a more stable stance he crept forward again, before twisting his body to the side, allowing himself to slide down, leaving his rear end higher than his front. After adjusting to the position he picked his way gingerly down the face of the cliff, placing each hoof only once, forcing him to consider the stability and position of each and every small, usable jut.
His motions carried him up, at last and in a most circuitous manner, to where Smarty-Pants had fallen. He dipped his head down and took her up in his teeth, grabbing her carefully by the pants, with accompanying apologetic mumbles about being in such a delicate area. His mission accomplished he continued back to the canyon floor, making another turn to tackle the curved face of the wall again.
His climb was much more challenging, the wind tearing at him, clutching his broad body and shoving powerfully. But he went on, unconcerned, holding his dear by her pants and picking his way carefully up the rocky wall. He made it up to the top without any more fuss, and found the environment at the top much more pleasant, though he was looked at curiously by the old zebra. “You... went back.”
“Eeyup. Straight up, aside and around. Never did back down. Couldn't. Ah had ta get her back.” Big Mac settled Smarty-Pants into his collar again, making certain she was securely wedged in.
“So you got around it by never stepping backwards, only moving forward back where you had been.” The old stallion laughed and shook his head. “A wonderful cheat that was not a cheat.”
“'Taint cheatin' if'n the rules ain't fair t'begin with.” Big Mac countered, mildly.
“Indeed, it's true, young one. Indeed it's true.” The other side of the canyon above the steep wall was another sone wall, reaching to the heavens. But this one had ascending trails that wound gently up it, and the wind was far less violent, only blowing in gusts that slowly got weaker as the cliffside was approached.
The two made their way up the winding trail, in silence, as before. But towards the top Big Mac asked, “How did ya know there was no goin' back?”
“You are not wholly alone when walking the path with a loved one that can speak. There are markers and informers. But no leadership like I am providing. Others can influence each other. But you would be walking this alone, with none to talk to save her unspeaking form. There must be communication. To influence decisions.”
“'Re ya here ta help me, 'r ta hurt me?” Big Mac got no response as they crested the canyon walls and felt the last gust of the lingering wind.
The environment into which they stepped almost made Big Mac long for the unforgiving wind and polished rocks of the canyon. The light quality had changed again. While the dim sky of the canyon had been bright enough to see by, the new environmental shade was very dark, like a lingering late-autumn evening just before sunset. And the quality of the light almost seemed to drain the color out of everything. Things seemed faded and washed. That was just the way the light illuminated things; the real problem was the content.
The solid rock at the canyon's edge ended abruptly a few steps away, turning immediately from stone to the loamy soil of a bog or swamp. Having been to Froggy Bottom Bog before Big Mac was very familiar with that kind of place. But it seemed so much worse. The slight breeze was cold and clammy, carrying the stench of decay, and there was a constant drizzle happening, that seemed unable to choose if it was composed of frigid water or tiny hailstones. And besides all that, there was no real path to speak of. The marshy land weaved and twisted around pools of black water, a maze of trails that went through puddles of silty mud or tangled masses of banyan roots.
“The slough.” The old zebra broke the investigative silence, probing the ground with his walking stick, then boldly striding forward to enter the drizzle and mud. Though he walked along well enough there was still a slightly audible suck and pop as his hooves pulled from the wet ground. “A barrier of many identities.”
Big Mac followed along, head drooping as the rain pattered down, in defiance of the canopy of trees, his lungs chilling as he sucked in heavy breaths of the clammy air. The whole place was just depressing. The feeling was heavy with a cloying miasma, as though he was being physically pressed upon by everything. A shudder ran through his whole body, running down his broad back and up again, soaked mane spiking back up as the goosebumps rose on his flesh. “Ain't none too invitin', this place. Ain't too likely anypony'd be setting up a homestead. Ah've heard tell of swamp folk. But this s'just too dang much.”
“The temptation is not always to stop and stay.” The old stallion was winding his way around the dark pools, never minding the clinging of mud on his hooves or the splattering of it that went up his legs and over his barrel. “The temptation is sometimes to never start. The dainty must decide what matters more, to press on for the sake of love or to hold back to spare their sensibilities. The fearful, the overly-cautious, the overly sensitive... they all face the slough with loathing and fear. Because the environment is unforgiving to the feelings and tastes of ponies. It will be what it is. And if it affects somepony... that is what it does.”
A nod followed, though stiffer than most of those before. The cold rain, chilly air and sticking ground were all taking their toll on the big stallion. His stout body was slowly starting to seize, though he muscled through it with an uncomplaining silence, more concerned with keeping his head down, to protect Smarty-Pants from the freezing drizzle. “It's a bit of a trot, it is. Ah s'pose it ain't meant ta be easy, but... seems almost cruel ta do this to somma the couples ah've seen about. T'aint fair. Not everypony can bear it.”
“I did.” The old male snorted and walked on slightly faster, seemingly unmolested by the cold and rain. “She did.” He pulled further and further ahead, his trail being slowly erased by the drizzle and the slow sliding of mud into the hooofprints. “You can. I think. Don't think about others. They face their own challenges their own way. You have to have focus for two, or else you have it for none.”
Big Mac gritted his teeth, pulling his hooves up with greater energy. Even if it sapped his fading strength he not only had to show he could keep up he needed to prove the slough would not beat him. The ground almost wanted to hold onto him, the marshy ground and clinging mud grasping his body, his solid heaviness working hard against him. “Got... focus... jes... makin'... conversation...”
“Perhaps my initial impression of you was wrong. I thought you would be quieter in times when focus was needed. But I suppose that with such challenges, distraction is preferable. It is most unfortunate I have nothing to say on such subjects.” The faster pace slowed, the zebra looking back with a slight smile.
“Leastwways, ya could tell me yer name. Ah'd like ta call ya what ya'd like ta be called.”
“I like to be called by her. But that is no longer possible. So... I will tell you my name. Eventually. Until then, not knowing it doesn't stop you from following me. Now hurry up. You have a short way to go before you leave the slough.”
Silence fell again, save for the patter of the rain and hail, and the sucking sound of the two pulling their hooves through the mud and sopping ground. The path they had been following terminated in a high mountain that seemed to stretch off endlessly to either side. Facing them was a cave, yawning hugely like the mouth of some earthen giant, complete with sharpened fangs of stalactites and stalagmites. Despite the imposing look, neither slowed as they went in.
The light from the cave entrance, what little there was, died barely a few steps in, leaving both clopping through the darkness, the zebra with confidence, Big Mac with careful motions. “Don't s'pose y'all got a light 'r somesuch, do ya?” The question echoed slightly around the rocky walls.
“Didn't have one the first time. Won't need one soon enough.” The meaning of the statement became plain after a bit more walking, a soft glow just barely becoming visible deeper in the cave. It quickly grew brighter, and indicated a sharp turn ahead.
Beyond the turn came the source of the unearthly shine. The very stones of the cavern were giving off a bluish-gold light, seen to be thanks to the energetic crystals that were shot through the walls and ceiling. The glowing illuminated the path, and showed off the rich bounty of it. Everywhere, there were gems, as well as rich, heavy veins of precious metals and minerals. They were all waiting to be taken; indeed, some had already been as revealed by deep gouges in the rock, and squat tunnels branching off that led into darkness not dispelled by the veins of glowing crystal.
“Earthy delights. The stuff of dreams and legends. It is so easy to lose the way when the security of plenty is so close at hoof. The stones would yield to hungry minds and eager work all manner of gem and precious thing. Everything but love. Whoever would lose themselves in here when the way is clear has chosen for themselves. This place will always be. But lives too soon run out. Love should matter more that clutching at riches that will wait.” The old man looked around with a jaundiced eye, as though hating everything on which his gaze fell.
“Don't seem too much of a stretch t'want it, that's fer sure. But ah don't see how it could be anypony'd stop after that there swamp and hide in some ol' cave jes 'cause it's filled with purty things.”
“The dainty that dared are faced with great temptations, all the things they would have adored in any ordinary situation. And all are at least driven to hunger for riches and plenty in some small sense. Even you, I am sure, could think of many ways to use such generous bounty. Even if not strictly for you.”
“Ah could. Sure. But ah ain't here fer riches. Ah'm here ta make Miss Smarty-Pants alive. All these rocks ain't gonna do it. They ain't got nothin' fer me, so ah ain't got no time fer them.”
The old stallion motioned down one of the widest of the passages, with glowing veins of crystal revealed along the walls which provided intermittent light, at least enough to make the going easier than at the entrance. “I applaud your passion young one. I hope you keep it. Because you will need it. You pass these trials with scorn. But down the road, the trials will scorn you. And then you will see what's really in your heart.”