//------------------------------// // Chapter Six // Story: The Parable of the Toymaker // by Jarvy Jared //------------------------------// Later they would say it was the worst storm disaster that Maretime Bay had faced in recent memory. The ravaged coast led to more than ten miles of beaches being swept away overnight. In the town itself, though many of the brick and sandstone buildings remained standing, they were nevertheless damaged by the torrential downpour of wind and rain. Windows shattered, and the glass shards littered the streets in such a way that, in one area, you could walk from one shop to the next without once touching the ground. Entire balconies were ripped away and flung to all corners of the world. Hedges and shrubbery that had long been maintained were uprooted and tossed aside with the same offhand cruelty a foal might take to an anthill.  It was fortunate, however, that, aside from a few bruised and battered bodies, no one suffered a deadly fate in that town. Damages to buildings and roads could be repaired with time, and earth ponies are always capable of hard, tedious, but ultimately rewarding work. That fortune did not extend to those of us who lived separate from the town. Of all the victims, two did not live to see the sun again. One was Easel Chips, whose sea-swept body was never recovered. The other was my father. I was the first to find him. Entering the shop, I found that a steady stream flowed down the stairs, entering from the gap that the tree had just opened in the roof. The power had gone out, but as I trudged determinedly upwards, I thought with no small amount of apprehension that the water seemed more viscous and thick than was appropriate. The tree, like some terrible arrow, pointed upwards in the direction of his room, its great trunk splintered and its branches scattered all across the ruined floorboards.  “Dad!” I cried, my voice hoarse. Twice I slipped on the stairs, banging my knees against the wood. The bag jostled against me. “Dad! Are you all right?” No answer came. Shivering, I finally reached the top of the stairs. The flung tree had landed in my room, having barreled through the walls. In the sizeable opening left in its wake, the wind howled with an unholy note of vengeance.  My father’s bedroom door was partially torn down. It hardly stood up to my weakened hooves. A skeletal thud sounded with its collapse. And on the other side lay a sight that nopony should ever have to see. Amid a crumbling mess of mortar, shattered wood beams, displaced roof tiles, and a slowly yet steadily growing puddle, was my father. He was unconscious. A pronounced bump protruded from his head, and I could see a trickle of blood trailing down from his scalp to his neck. His once pure white mane was dirtied beyond all recognition.  My voice shattered upon that sight. A strangled cry, barely equine, escaped my lips, and I threw myself upon him. He stirred, and a groan—impossibly weak—rose out of his body like a steam engine’s final breath. He opened his eyes but could not focus them on me. “Dad!” “Maple?… Where… what happened…?” “It’s okay, it’s okay, I’m right here, Dad, I’m right here!” I clutched his hoof in one of mine, but to my horror, I could barely feel it. I was either too cold, or he was. In his other hoof was Argyle’s journal, and by some miracle, it looked to have been kept dry and intact.  He noticed my soaked appearance. “What happened to you?” “I… I ran. After Easel.” In halting gasps I recounted what had happened only minutes before, trying to look everywhere but the blood. My father shifted his head; it was an attempt at a nod. “I heard… crashing. Thought someone had broken in. Meant… meant to go and confront them, but…” He coughed up spit and blood. “Did you…” “Y-yes! I got them!” I showed him the bag and its contents. “See? They’re all here. Applejack, Pinkie Pie, Fluttershy, Rainbow Dash, Rarity, Twilight Sparkle…” “Good. Good. And, Easel…” I couldn’t answer. I hung my head, too ashamed to even cry.  His hoof came up and touched my face. For a moment, a familiar strength emanated from him, and he spoke with absolute conviction. “It’s not your fault, Maple.”  “But—I could have stopped him sooner, and now—” “Shh. It’s not your fault. It was bound to happen.” I looked at him. He sighed. “I knew he might find out, one way or another. But I didn’t think…” When he fell silent, a cold spike of fear stabbed my heart. I shook him, hoping he wasn’t… And when he coughed, fresh relief flooded my system. “Maple,” he gasped. “Dad?” “You… you have to finish them. The wooden figures.” “D-dad, wait, never mind those now. I have to go get help—” “No, sweetheart.” He craned his neck, searching for me. His eyes were glossy. “It’s… done. The figures…” “Dad, please—” “Listen,” he hissed, as though every utterance tore his body apart. He brought the journal up and pushed it into my chest.  “Don’t you see? This whole affair—it’s bigger than you, me, and even Argyle. We have to see it through. You have to.” Finally, he managed to find my face. His eyes were trained fully on me, in one final burst of clarity. “Promise me that you’ll see it through. Please.” I stared at him, my vision growing blurry with tears. I barely heard either the rain or the wind over the screaming in my head. My father stared back, but he was already losing focus.  I wiped my face. “O-okay,” I said shakily. “I… I promise, Dad. I’ll do my best.” Then, gingerly, I took the journal and placed it into the bag with all the figures, feeling how heavy it was.  He smiled at me. “I know you will. I love you, Maple.” His head fell. His eyes fluttered, then closed. The wind slowed, the rain paused, and there was a silence like all the world had slipped away. *** The terrible memories of that terrible night, and of those terrible days that followed, pounded repeatedly inside my head. Maretime Bay remembered to send a team to check on us after they had cleared the road. But there was no need. All they found was a husk of a toymaker’s shop, wet and moldy and smelling like a cellar, and the daughter-turned-orphan, shivering and cold beyond all feeling. They gave me blankets and something warm to drink. No one asked about my father. But they all knew, and though they tried to hide their pity, they could not hide it from me.      They volunteered to help clean up the place. I refused them. For one, I did not like the idea of strangers coming in and possibly snooping around our shop. And for another, I sensed that no amount of work would ever clean the stains and scars left upon my home. At the very least, I accepted their help in burying my father in a small plot of land just behind the shop. He still rests there, next to my mother.  Though I had promised my father to finish the task, I could barely stand to even look at those figurines. I kept them tucked away in some corner of the workshop, away from all eyes, even my own. The workshop itself had not escaped damages. Water had broken through the walls, and these would have to be repaired before I could address either the shelves that clutched at the nails barely holding them in place or the wallpaper that peeled away from the walls like loose rattlesnake skin. All that ruin made for easy company, and also for an easy excuse not to work, for if everything lay in a squalor so deeply infested that no amount of cleaning could ever hope to contain it, then there was no point in even trying. For days I sat outside the workshop, staring at all our wares. Miraculously, though the shop’s walls and floor would have to be replaced, most of our items remained untouched. Many had survived the storm—thanks, no doubt, to my father’s expertise. But they all seemed ugly to me, deceitful. Some of our loyal customers came by to check on me, but I regarded them in the same way. Some  attempted to speak with me, to offer their condolences, but I brushed them off in a dumb stupor. Finally they understood and left me alone. At some point I actually considered throwing away the figures, as Easel had intended. What good could they do? Even if they were real and their stories really did happen, it didn’t seem to matter. They were dead. What good could they possibly do? Wouldn’t they just be taking up space? Far better to be rid of them. All they gave me were painful memories. Just as I was about to follow through, though, Argyle’s letter arrived. It was short and sloppily written, like he had been shaking all over when he wrote it:  Have heard terrible news. On way back now. So sorry. I was only somewhat comforted by the knowledge that he’d be returning. But though it was miniscule, his letter reminded me of why I had begun helping him, and what I had felt. Such memories came with the bitterness of grief, yet still they glowed with a rare warmth, a gleam of hope in the darkness. Leaning against the workshop door, I read the letter again. I looked up, and saw it was sunset already. I remembered when Argyle first arrived, and I remembered his questions, his calmness, the way he made my father look, the way he made me feel. I remembered my promise.  Shakily, I stood, hoofing the letter aside. I turned and faced the door. It had survived that night completely unscathed, and looked back at me without a shred of guilt or vindication—not that I would have expected any. Letting go of a breath, I gently opened the door. I did not immediately go to work. I paused, first to regard the room and its condition. Aside from my placing the bag there, I had not touched anything, and so found it in the same state of disrepair it had been in when Easel had entered. It saddened me to see my father’s pride and joy like this. The broom lay where it had fallen. I held it in my hooves, thinking about how, only a short while ago, my father and I had cleaned up this place together. The memory caused fresh tears to well up in my eyes. I wiped them away. “I promised,” I whispered to the room. And so I set myself to work. Taking the broom, I worked in a parallel line, sweeping from one side of the room to the next. Dust and debris rose up and were brushed to the side.  When that was done, I hoisted all the garbage and deposited them in bags to be thrown out later. Next, I took a dust pan to the tables and cleared them off, ignoring the soreness that pervaded throughout my body, especially my back, where I had fallen. My father’s toolbox was opened, the items gently pulled out, scrubbed, cleaned, and wiped down before they returned to their spots, and I handled each with the same care he had afforded to the models, until they looked brand-new. I took the collection of work aprons, bundled them up, and placed them in a bucket of hot water, then used a steel-wool sponge to remove the stubborn dust particles that had, for years, sat like greedy flies on each garment. When I cried over this, I did so in silence, knowing that my father would have understood: for the pain in my heart was not as powerful as the love, and the difference in measurement was what resulted in these tears. And when I had finished cleaning them, I drew a line out of the side of the shop and hung the aprons from it to dry, and along the way my tears dried, too.  The process took up the better part of that sunset-driven evening. Yet, surprisingly, I was not tired. The world dwindled away into a dark and forgetful slumber while I remained in the workshop, seeing only by the glow of an oil lamp. I took out all six figures and the journal. Twilight Sparkle stared at me through lifeless eyes. Yes, I thought. This was where I’d start. This was what I would finish.  I do not remember much else of that night. Perhaps it is best that I don’t. If I worked happily or sadly through it, if I cried or smiled—the mind has a habit of swapping back and forth through the extremes of emotions. And sensitive as I was to the emotions of others, in that room, alone, with nothing but those wooden ghosts to talk to, I was even more sensitive to my own. I believe it was best for me to not consciously be aware of them, if only so that I could fulfill my promise—a moment’s pause, a second of distraction, and my grief would have overrun me, and nothing would be done to cure myself of the sickness that comes with the relief and sorrow of having survived, of having lived and loved. And although I worked in total silence, my face paled by the little oil lamp, I did not feel alone. The figures kept me company, and I could almost imagine them talking to me while I painted Twilight Sparkle. I could not tell you if I knew their voices distinctly, just that it seemed that I heard them in my imagination, like echoes of the unknown past that I interpreted into the tragic present. And in between those imaginary voices, I thought I could hear, could feel, my father nearby, watching and nodding with quiet approval, coaching me through why he had carved the wood in a certain way, the importance of craftsmanship, and more. Of course, I knew this was just my memory coming to erratic life before me. But it seemed to me that the line between what was remembered and what was lived was beginning to blur. Remembering the past and living the present seemed impossible to disconnect. One did both by doing both.  In any case, at some point I must have finished, for when I awoke the next day, still in the workshop, the friendly face of Twilight Sparkle was looking down upon me. At the same time, I heard somepony furiously knocking on the front door. And a familiar voice: “Maple? Maple, it’s me! Argyle! Are you in there?” The spell of sleep was broken. I stood and, in a few short steps, exited the workshop and approached the front door. Argyle stood on the other side, and when I opened the door, he stepped back in momentary surprise.  I tried to smile at him, but I was too tired. “Hello, Argyle.” He only hesitated for a second before rushing forward and hugging me. No words were said, nor could be said. I closed my eyes and hugged him back. I thought I could cry then, but found I was simply too tired to shed anything more.  When eventually we broke our hug, he could only look sorrowfully at me. “I’m sorry, Maple,” he said. “I… I should have come sooner, but mail doesn’t travel that quickly through the Ponyville Badlands and—” “It’s all right,” I automatically said. “It isn’t,” he replied. I knew he was right. We went inside. For half a moment it was like that very first day, but that moment quickly passed. I told Argyle in a subdued tone about what Easel had done. He was quiet in turn, then asked, in a somewhat guilty tone, what had happened to the figurines and the journal.  “They’re in here,” I said, and showed him into the workshop. The two of us stood before those six, as silent as they were. I felt strange. I was proud, and yet, felt empty looking at them. The joy and ardor I had felt previously looking upon any one of them was missing from me. Apathy was all that remained.  “They’re perfect,” Argyle said. I believed him, and yet also I did not—not fully. “Who will they be for?” I asked. “My daughter. She was just born, actually, sometime before I first came here.” He did not need to say more. And despite the massive implications, I found I was not at all surprised. But I knew then I could not tell him how I felt. And perhaps I never could. And that tore my heart up, even as I knew it was true. As he carefully scooped all six figures up and placed them into his bag, he asked, “How much do I owe you?” I did not know. My father did not have a set standard for commissions, preferring to decide the price after the deed was done. But even if there had been a standard fare, I doubted I could name it. No price could cover the cost. I knew that, and I knew that Argyle also did, too. This knowledge poisoned us, I think, and I felt myself drifting away from him, both physically and emotionally. I arrived at an answer, one that shocked me. Yet it seemed the most necessary thing. “Not a penny,” I said slowly, “but there is one other thing.” We made our way to the front door. Argyle walked with his head slightly bowed. He knew what was coming, but he did not ask for it—did not raise his head or open his mouth or look back at me until we were back on the jetty. It had survived the storm. Sitting next to it was a small, one-pony boat, with black sails attached to the mast. “Name it,” Argyle said. He did not sound scared or upset, and so, although I was, I chose to put my trust in him. First, I reached into my pack and handed him the journal. He looked at it as though he had never seen it before, but, then, nodded and also placed it into his bag. Then I sighed and said, “I… I think this should be the last time we see each other.” Another simple admission, but whereas the one of love had brought with it life-giving elation, this one brought only a crushing numbness. But I stood by it anyway. Argyle nodded. “Very well. I… I can do that, Maple.” I didn’t thank him. It was a thankless request, after all—selfish and bitter and cruel in all the ways that could disgust me. Yet Argyle still turned and smiled at me, in a way that made my heart soar and sink. He hugged me again, and into my ear whispered, “Thank you, Maple.”  I felt it from him—a familiar warmth, and something that could have been more, had our lives not turned out the way they had. “Thank you for everything, Argyle,” I replied, my voice hoarse. “And… goodbye.” He stepped onto the boat and waved one last time at me, before turning his gaze back towards Maretime Bay. Already it seemed he was a world away—a world full of impossible dreams and a hope yet unfulfilled, and also one of wooden figures and a past that spoke to him and him alone. Then he raised sails and pushed off from the jetty, the boat rapidly accelerating across the ocean, his back to the current and to me, and growing smaller and smaller with each passing second until he was a dot indistinguishable from the faded pink clouds still adorning that fragile horizon. That was the last I ever saw Argyle.