When the world returned to First Fruits, it was tickling his muzzle. Then it was cracking his head open like a walnut, and gagging him on sand and bits of river wash. He swatted at his nose. An insect with too many legs buzzed against his hoof and sprang away.
Fragments of the last few minutes played out in his vision: sneering faces of colts guarding a bridge, shaggy, unkempt manes, Cinnamon clutching a featherhorse’s face as they both dropped into a rocky brown river.
“Cinnamon …” First groaned. “Aww, no.”
He stood and let himself sink to the ankles in the mud island on which he’d washed up, ears and head hung low. His saddlebag was thick with clay and soaked through, and his waterskin was nowhere to be found. No voices reached him from upstream.
Step by step he slogged through the mire and, gripping a log half-buried in the bank, heaved himself up onto the grassy shore. The sun had drifted lower in the sky, but was still potent enough to burn his ears. He sat down and gazed a while at the water’s flow. When his lost cat failed to drift by, he sighed and unstrapped his bag.
He upended it, letting its contents spill out along with a brief torrent of water. The oats were still sealed in their glass jar, and his shears, rusted for years, would be none the worse for wear. The map was intact as well; the water had beaded on its surface, either by virtue of magic or a layer of wax too thin to detect.
A soft cardboard box plopped out. The matches inside were a lost cause. The twine and the journal followed, soggy like the rest of his supplies, but questionable. He placed them both outside of his shadow in the light, lay down, and watched.
He watched the journal’s blank pages dry, curling with imperceptible slowness, because he didn’t want to think about how many years Cinnamon had been with him and his family; of how his parents had surprised him one Hearth’s Warming morning by opening a box and showing him a ball of fluff with a red ribbon and bell around its neck. He watched an ant as it struggled to drag a dead fuzzy caterpillar to its nest, and was reminded of how quickly Cinnamon had brought him her first mouse, brown and limp outside his bedroom door.
He watched the sunlight play on leaves and dead matter as it was conveyed out of sight by the restless stream, and when it had turned from clear white to yellow, he uncorked the inkwell, found the driest page in the journal he could, and wrote at the top:
Day One
I feel like a darn fool.
Nothing else occurred to him to write. He packed everything but the map back into his grimy bag. Judging from the path of the sun, and how the stream bowed at a sharp angle south and southwest, his destination was to the northeast. He left the stream and its misfortunes behind, because that, he had learned, was what a Caretaker ought to do.
The grade of the field began to rise as he walked, and the smooth grassland became scored with gullies. Boulders peeked through the barrel-high green waves. Some of them were engraved with spiral patterns, and a few that were perched upright bore symbols carved deep into their gray faces. As he wound his way through the chaotic checkerboard and further uphill, the grass thinned to isolated clumps.
At the summit, First discovered that the hill was in fact a ridge that ran the length of the creek for as far as he could see. To the darkening east and north, a layer of thorn shrubs rose twisted from the earth, growing in height with the distance into an impenetrable forest wall. Back in the other direction, the mild grasses reigned, rippling under the lowered sun. He consulted the map, then glared over its edge at what lay on the opposite side of the ridge.
It was another gully, deeper than the others, and bedded on one side by weathered stones. A pool had settled in the depression it made in the slope, a mass of still grey water over which no birds or dragonflies played. A ring of dried, cracked mud surrounded it, faded yellow like the sun-bleached coat of a dead deer. From the mud to where First stood, the land was flint gravel, unbroken by anything living.
Above the pool on one of the girdling stones was carved a crescent moon.
He nodded and slipped the map into his bag. The sun would rule the sky for a few hours longer. Finding a town and a hostel that would give him shelter until moonrise seemed the best option. He thought it odd that the ground was unbroken—that there was no evidence of Roses at all—but that was a mystery he would solve tonight.
Scanning the horizon, he caught sight of a grid of lights canvasing the plains, midway between the daylight’s aura and the evening that trailed it from the east. Marking its position relative to where he stood and the gap in the hills that would welcome the sun to bed, he trudged down the cutting hard pack and back to the cool caresses of the grass.
Near the foot of the ridge, his thoughts of past battles and how he would need to steel himself for the unknown enemies that waited for him up at the grotto when he returned were interrupted by the sight of another traveler. It was a mare, ahead of him on the trail and walking, like he was, toward the town. She was burdened by a pair of overstuffed saddlebags, but somehow managing to keep her balance.
As he passed her, she stumbled nearer to him, causing him to brush one of her bags. A plume of tiny white feathers billowed out like dandelion seeds.
“Pardon me, ma’am,” he mumbled, and hurried to get ahead of her.
“Hello?” she called. “I’m sorry to intrude, but I couldn’t help but notice the mud. Did you take a tumble, sweetie?” Her slowing hoofsteps invited First to stop and turn.
“I’m all right,” he said to the ground. “Took a step too close to the river. Just need to get to town and wash up.”
“OK. Well, I’m glad you’re alright. My name’s Primrose, by the way.”
“Nice to meet you, Ms. Primrose,” he chuckled.
The mare shifted and gave him a wry look. “I’m sorry, is something funny?” She shooed a fly that was performing acrobatics near her muzzle, getting closer and closer with each loop.
First stopped laughing. “My apologies, ma’am, no. It’s just that … the flower on your mark ain’t a primrose.”
“Well Celestia’s fuzzy pink slippers, wouldn’t you know everypony says so! Everypony who knows flowers that is. Are you a gardener, Mr. …?”
“My name’s First Fruits. I’m a farmer. My ma knew flowers pretty good. I learned a little bit from her.”
“Knew? Is she …”
“Yeah, she passed away last month.”
“I see. I’m sorry to hear that. Pardon me for saying so, honey, but Greywater Fell is no place for a colt your age. Let me walk with you back home to town.”
“That’s OK, ma’am,” said First, looking from side to side for a way out. “I’m on an errand. Never been to the town up ahead. If you know of a hostel there, though, or a place that would take me in for a night in exchange for some dish washin’ or wood choppin’, I’d be grateful.”
“Dish washing? Wood chopping? You mean you’re out here by yourself with no money? No, I’ll have none of that. You can stay with my brother, Bellows. He’s the local blacksmith. If you really want to pay your way, I’m sure he can find something for you to do to make things square. Now come on, it’s getting dark.”
“Yes ma’am,” said First, falling into step behind her.
When they arrived at Bellows’ house, they found the window shades shut and the doors barred from the inside. Without a second’s hesitation, Primrose led First down an alley to the attached workshop, which she explained was always locked to keep thieves from stealing the expensive tools within, but had a secret entrance in case Bellows lost the key. First found it unusual that the blacksmith should include such a measure, but said nothing as his guide tapped a brick in the building’s foundation and opened the top of a rain barrel set tight up against the wall. Giving him a wink, she sloughed off her saddlebags, hopped in and disappeared into a hole at the bottom.
First peered into the barrel, worried that he had made a fatal error. Primrose, for all he knew, was a thief like the colts at the bridge, or worse, it could be that those very colts were waiting on the other side of the wall, ready to beat the unpaid toll out of his hide. He was formulating an escape plan when the lock clicked, and the metal-ribbed door creaked open.
Only Primrose appeared, smiling. She beckoned him inside when she saw him lingering at the bottom of the steps. “Come on, what are you waiting for? My brother is probably out travelling to pick up coal. He burns through a ton of it. There you go. Watch yourself coming in.”
First stepped out of the fading daylight into the gloom of the dormant forge. A sheet of metal squealed behind him, and a firefly lamp’s tremulous glow filled the room.
He ducked his head. The sudden light had revealed a row of scythes hung from the ceiling joists inches away, their wooden handles suspended like prison bars. Racks of spears, fence posts, and shovels lined the walls, interspersed with boxes piled high with horseshoes. At the far wall, the dark stone hulk of a furnace stood like a golem of legend, waiting for its master to return.
Primrose backed out into the doorway. “Yeah, he’s got quite a few orders he’s working on here,” she said. “Probably why he needs more coal. There’s a bucket of water he uses to quench the hot iron that you can use to wash the mud off. And see that hay pile over there? That’s where he sets the finer pieces to keep them from breaking during the course of a busy day. You can use that to sleep on if you like.”
First bowed his head for lack of a better way to show his gratitude. “I appreciate your help, ma’am. I gotta ask, though, why do you trust me? You talked about your brother keepin’ the door locked against thieves. What if I take a liking to one of these grass cutters here and walk off with it?” He gestured toward the scythes.
“Oh, well, call it a strong hunch,” Primrose chuckled. “I’m pretty good at reading ponies’ vibes, and I don’t think you’re that sort. And also, I know what you look like. Half the town goes to Bellows for this or that. There would be a lot of ponies searching for a young colt with a gray coat and a … a full moon forest for a cutie mark.” Her lime-green eyes pierced the shadows cast by the metalwork.
First looked away. “I get the picture, ma’am. I wasn’t intendin’ no trouble.”
“I know, sweetie. Now get some sleep. I’m heading home. I’ll stop by tomorrow morning at daybreak to check on you, alright?”
“I’ll do that. Thank you, ma’am. I won’t forget it.”
Primrose gave him a parting smile and shut the door. When her hoofsteps had faded into the night, First went to the window and checked the moon’s altitude. It was still low over the cooling hills, raised by the Princess no more than an hour ago. It would be another three before midnight. That left about two hours to wait, as it would take some time make the trek back to the grotto.
The layer of mud on his coat had crusted over on the way to town, and was causing an itch he could no longer ignore. He swung his saddlebag to the floor and began to look for the water bucket that Primrose had mentioned. As he picked his way from corner to corner, he marveled at the products of the blacksmith’s craft. The heads of the spears were identical; no burs, scratches or uneven edges differentiated them. It was the same with the woodwork of the shafts, and of the handles of the smaller axes, mauls and hammers that filled every shelf and wall rack. Every metal surface shone with a film of oil against corrosion. This was the workplace of a master; an established stallion who need never worry about the next week’s income.
He found the water bucket on the scarred anvil that was bolted to the floor beside the furnace, and a pile of rags. He took one and, dipping an end into the water, began to dab and scrape at the stubborn river clay. His gaze fell on the massive hammer lying against the anvil as he worked. Any pony who took something from this shop unbidden would have a very bad day if Bellows found them.
His coat cleaned and dry, he retrieved his journal and lay down on the hay bed beneath the window where he could write while marking the time by the moon. After loading his quill with ink, he started to scratch at the page, taking long breaks to gaze at the sky and think.
Still Day One (night time)
Found the Sign of the Moon by a spring. Looks bad. Maybe I need to cut whatever vines might be clingin to the place. Maybe that’s how I claim my Sanctuary.
Met a mare on the way. Seemed She’s nice. Her name’s Primrose, but go figure had carnations for her mark. I laughed. That was rude, shouldn’t do that again.
Need to think of how to repay Bellows for stayin the night in his forge. Bellows is Primrose’s brother. Don’t get on his bad side.
When he’d finished, he knew that it was time. The hour called to him in a chorus of voices: invitations made by the starlight; the heightened song of the crickets; the single perfect curve of the moon’s eastern side contradicted by the vague, diffuse west; the blued clouds that clothed her. It was so on every night that his duty as a Caretaker was to be fulfilled. He took up his saddlebag and stepped out to resume his role in the eternal play.
The sparkling grasses swept against his limber legs as he strode toward the hills. It was easy to retrace his path with the western horizon highlighted by the luminous sky. Urged onward by his purpose and unchallenged by pony or beast, he soon came to the spot where he’d met Primrose. The turf was still beaten down where the two of them had stopped and talked. She would be fast asleep by now, he mused. Perhaps the Night Princess was watching over her in her dreams. He began the climb up the ridge’s steep slope.
When the green carpet had balded to reveal the hard pack beneath, he tossed his bag to the ground and withdrew his shears. The twine, he found, was somewhat brittle from its turn drying in the sun, but did not break as he tightened the knots that bound the blades to his legs. He clamped the final loop between his top teeth to fix the final instrument to his muzzle and rushed up the ridge to find his enemies.
At the crest, by the side of the barren grotto, he found them. Two silhouettes marred the sky, blotting the ridgeline into nightmarish shapes. Downslope a creature stooped, its twisted, hairless face sloshing at the pool’s surface. Its bloated black tongue lapped the lifeless waters through a jumble of fangs too numerous for its pasty white muzzle. Its claws, sprouted from what once might have been hooves in odd-numbered, asymmetric digits, scrawled against stone as they kneaded in violent tension.
Another figure sat above the pool at the moon-engraven dolmen. It wore a black hooded cloak that concealed all but the fact that its occupant was a pony. A puppy hung limp in the crook of one foreleg. The other hoof bore a knife.
The creature finished drinking and looked up at the listless animal with pus-white pupils. Its breath quickened, polluting the calm night air with rancid coughs of hunger.
“In the name of Selene,” a mare’s voice hissed. She drew the knife across the puppy’s throat, cranking its neck to let the blood streak across the monster’s face. It howled and raised its clawed forelimbs in exaltation, as if to grasp the moon and pull it down for its own. In reply, the pony threw her offering into the pool.
The creature plucked up the dying animal and found the source of the spraying blood with its fangs. It purred wetly, sucking hard enough to shrink its prey’s abdomen and wither its limbs. When there was nothing left for it to gulp, it cast the husk aside and let free a raw-throated shriek of triumph.
The mare dropped her knife and bowed her head. She did nothing as the monster climbed wolf-like up the grotto, sniffing and eager. She did nothing as it opened its reeking, bloodstained mouth wide, lolled its tongue, and gave her cheek a long lascivious lick.
First Fruits had seen enough. He raised his forelegs and crossed them, baring the old blades to the moonlight. “Accept your servant’s labor, o Mother of the Sacred Night!” he spoke aloud. “This branch too will fail, but by Your grace may it not be tonight!”
The mare gasped at the calling of his prayer and backed away. Bound by his code to avoid injury to the living, First kept an eye on her and began to circle the beast. This, it was clear, was no ordinary Rose. He knew nothing of its capabilities beyond its claws and fangs, which made his usual battle techniques dangerous to employ until he could draw its strengths and weaknesses out.
He leapt forward and gave a quick feint with one of his blades. The creature caught it in its claws and slammed his foreleg to the ground. While he was pinned, it lunged at his face, ready to resolve the matter in a single snap of its jaws.
In the instant before the oily red teeth touched his muzzle, First ducked his head and swung his shear upward to cleave the creature’s jaw in two. The metal dug into the pale gelatinous flesh, but before it could split the knotted bone, the twine binding snapped. The beast roared and, pulling the shear from its throat, swatted First into the side of the ridge and jumped on top of him.
Struggling to bring his foreleg shears up for protection, he saw something quick and agile tear across the gravel to his side. It darted up into the air like a squirrel leaping to a bough full of acorns and attached itself to the monster’s face. Quick, vicious claws raked its baleful eyes, slicing them open in sprays of black fluid. As quickly as it came, the furtive savior hopped away into the darkness.
First seized the opportunity. A sharp double kick with his hind legs pushed the thrashing abomination off and to the edge of the pool, where it balanced on three legs while it rubbed at its shredded eyes. He found his muzzle shear and, pressing it between his hooves, rolled and cut at the planted foreleg. The limb cracked and bent backward.
As the ruined monster fell off-balance, he sprang upright and swung the shear upward to continue the cut he’d made earlier below its jaw. The blade entered the hanging flaps of cloven flesh, and with an exhalation of septic fluids its wretched head separated from its neck. The body slumped to the ground and began to convulse.
“First Fruits? Selene blesses us all, you’re a Caretaker! I knew it!”
He paused, ready to sever the still-thrashing claws and stomp the gagging head flat.
“Ms. Primrose? Is that you?”
“Yes and no, sweetie,” she laughed, her hooves wet and dripping with blood. “My name is Wild Carnation.”