//------------------------------// // Miscalculation // Story: First Fruits // by the dobermans //------------------------------// It only took a few minutes on the trail for First Fruits to discover something fascinating about sunlight: it was still sunlight, whether he had a home or not. Whether he was tending the gardens of his father’s Sanctuary, or asleep and dreaming of the sorrow of a goddess, or being eaten by Roses, the birds would still sing, the clouds would still drift across the sky, and the grass would still whisper. None of that had changed after his mother had gone to be among the stars, he considered. It would be the same for him. He also discovered, pausing at a fork in the trail to shield his eyes against the dry heat of the sun, that his new awareness of the constants of the universe did nothing to give any clue as to where he needed to go. His father had bidden him to create his own Sanctuary. The fact that this had come after proving himself in battle suggested that whatever he had to do would involve putting Roses down, but it revealed little about his destination. He knew for certain that there were none in the town that waited at the end of the left fork of the trail, the lights of which he’d watched from his bedroom window all his life. There were shops serving the few families who lived there, a park, and the residents themselves. He turned right, into the sun. The open farm fields that surrounded his home grew hilly and began to descend in a slow grade into a valley. Cinnamon was warm on his back, but if she was upset at the heat, she had not yet given voice to her discomfort. He took a drink from his water skin as he pondered the likelihood of finding his Sanctuary before night fell. The odds, he concluded, were poor, for the simple reason that he had only the white wispy clouds and humming fields to ask for a place to start. He wasn’t sure anyone would tell him—assuming that they knew anything about it—given how strict the quest’s rules were. Without family in any of the nearby villages who knew the family history and might at least give him a hint, he was left with the outside chance that a library might have some ancient book on its shelves from the old times that recorded all the dens and haunts of the monsters throughout the land. He stopped short, causing Cinnamon to wobble against the back of his mane. Chuckling at his over-eagerness to start his journey, he unslung his saddlebag and withdrew the old map his father had packed for him. The thick parchment was the color of weathered yellow paint, with no part of it flat or free of fine wrinkles. The bottom bobbed like a dusty tail in the hot breeze as he held it in front of the sun. The ink had long ago faded to a faint gray, and there were drops of it spattered across the bumpy surface, but he could still see the outlines of mountains, rivers and towns, few of which matched his knowledge of the placement of things. He could make out the gorge that was told to be home to monstrous serpents that burrowed in the walls of the cleft rock, and the Castle of the Two Sisters close by one of its branches. That the Castle was not represented by ruins spoke of the parchment’s age. He peered closer. What he had at first taken as dried droplets spilled from a careless quill were in fact hundreds of crescent moons. No feather he knew of was thin enough to have drawn them. They could only have been created by magic. They speckled the page like dark stars in a blazing night, thick in the wild areas and sparse near the cities. Some had been doubled with a second crescent to form a sharp-edged full moon. Dispersed as they might be, there was a pattern. They all converged at the miniature emblem of a single rose, solitary amid a forest of tangled limbs that skirted the Sisters’ domain of old. Cinnamon stood up, stretched, circled once on his back, and lay down. He mulled over the possibilities. It was a waste of time to try to decipher the meaning of the symbols without seeking out what they represented. There could be no doubt that the rose signified something of utmost importance, but it seemed a bad idea to target a location that had been deemed of such prominence in an age when magic was dark, powerful and wild. He traced the hair-like undulations of one of the rivers to the southwest of the rose with a hooftip. It was difficult to be sure, but the bends struck him as familiar, like those of a creek he knew lay at the bottom of the shallow valley he was descending. Beyond it on the map, a crescent moon was painted above what might have been a drop of water. It was as good a place as any to begin the search for his Sanctuary. He folded the parchment, tucked it back into his bag, and continued down the hill. It took several degrees of the arc of the sun’s track to come within earshot of the creek’s anxious babble. Over the noise, he heard voices. Colts—older boys—laughing and snorting at some ongoing joke. He caught sight of them through the trees at a bend in the path. Five of them were lounging against the foundation posts of a wooden bridge that spanned the creek, hitting and pushing each other and telling tales. Above their heads, a single Pegasus hovered like a sweat bee, throwing rocks into the turgid brown water. One of them—white of coat and bigger than the rest—whacked his nearest companion’s chest and brought the raucous herd to silence. The Pegasus dropped his load of rocks and crossed his forelegs. They all watched First as he emerged from behind the screen of saplings. “Hey there, scrawny,” the leader called out. “You lookin’ to cross over?” First Fruits stopped far enough away to get a head start should they decide to rush him. He’d been around danger often enough to be able to sense the tension in the air, and to know that one always needed space to maneuver, or escape. The colts on the bridge would be easy enough to deal with. It was the Pegasus who concerned him. He eyed the glaring flyer. “What are you lookin’ at, chief?” he challenged, performing a mid-air somersault. “Never seen a pony with wings?” “I seen plenty of featherhorses,” replied First. It was a lie, but letting on that he had seen only one before in his life, and from a great distance, would have invited more ridicule, or worse. “Featherhorses, huh?” the Pegasus laughed. “I think maybe I need to take that as an insult.” His grin became a snarl in an instant. “Hold up, Shriek,” said the leader. He turned to First. “There’s a toll for this bridge. Fifteen bits.” The rest of the gang came forward to form a living barrier. There was still enough distance between them to run, First estimated. He held his ground. “What if I don’t got fifteen bits?” “Well, then we need to get creative. Your bag will do. In lieu of the hard currency, you might say.” “Aw yeah, old Pomp with the fancy words,” cheered a long-necked mustang. First closed his eyes and smiled. The precepts of the Caretakers rose in his mind, ever ready to guide him, affirmed and engrained through years of daily repetition. The one he needed now resounded like a clear bell in his thoughts. Harm no living pony. “I’ll tell you fellas, I don’t wanna give up my bag, and I gotta cross the river, so maybe I’ll take a swim.” He circled to the narrow shoreline, giving the would-be thieves a wide berth. They gaped at him as he stepped into the water and began to paddle his legs. The strong current dragged him downstream away from the bridge, but he had no trouble staying afloat, pushing off from the submerged rocks as he was carried into them. Cinnamon inched higher on his neck. “Swim my tail!” Shriek bellowed. He dove out of the air and made a grab for First’s saddlebag. The others ran to the shore, jeering and ready to snatch the bag if it was tossed back to them. “Get off me!” shouted First, but he knew it was an empty threat. He had underestimated their hostility, assuming they would respect a pony who would choose to ford a dangerous creek rather than yield to their demands. Now he had lost his escape route as well. Just as the strap of his saddlebag began to work loose, he felt a weight push off from his shoulder blades. Cinnamon had launched herself onto Shriek’s face, digging her claws deep into his muzzle and ears. She spat and yowled as he flopped in midair above the thrashing surface of the water. Shriek, for his part, lived up to his name. “Cinnamon, stop that!” First cried. He struggled to swim upstream, but had drifted into the fast current at the middle of the creek. He could only watch as the wrestling match between his cat and the angry Pegasus spun out of control, landing them both in the water. When he opened his mouth to shout again, the creek stuffed it full of grainy water, and his back struck a rock. He spun, his neck whipping backward in a flash of stars. The cold waves closed over his muzzle.