Once upon a time, in the beautiful land of Equatia, ponies worked together with other species and friendship held sway through the land. But over time, those bonds of friendship slowly faded, and species became guarded against one another. Many neighboring nations grew jealous of the pony empire, and soon words were said that could not be taken back. It would not come to blows yet, but the fires had been lit and the drummers were starting to beat their grisly tune.
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It was a cool autumn morning; a light mist clung stubbornly to the forest floor even as the sun slowly climbed its way into the heavens. Naked trees dominate the landscape, empty branches left barren and grasping. The forest was prepping for winter, yet nothing stirred at this early hour.
Neither birds nor bugs set about their business. Squires lay quite in their holes. Everything was still. Even the wind held its breath as if captivated by the scene below.
An old stallion and a young colt lay in the leaf litter. The two earth ponies bore a familiar resemblance to each other: blonde manes, broad shoulders, big hooves. The only difference being the colt had a brown coat and the oldest stallion was red with speckles of gray in his coat and mane. They wore thick hoof stitched vests to ward off the cold, but carried little else. Their saddlebags sprawled out in front of them. On top of the waxed canvas lay their muskets.
Occasionally the colt would shift as if to relieve both his anxiety or boredom. The stallion, by contrast, was perfectly still. He may well have been mistaken for a corpse if not for the light haze rising from his muzzle. Both of their attentions were fixated on the scene before them.
Ahead, at just over 100 feet, was a chicken. It clucked nervously at its forced isolation. It couldn’t get under a bush. It couldn’t get up into a tree. It knew it was in danger but there was little it could do about it. Fruitlessly, it tugged at the rope that imprisoned it and the wooden stake it was tied to. The small pile of corn and barley helped to satiate its nerves, but soon enough it would go right back to fretting and metaphorical wing wringing.
The sun inched higher. The mist reluctantly released its grip on the forest and floated higher. The chicken continued to voice its worries.
The colt slowly reached over and scratched an itch underneath his vest. Then he reached behind and scratched at his cutie mark: a musket against a blue background. The colt subconsciously started to chew on his hoof, before looking down and realizing what he was doing. He finally dredged up enough nerve to whisper, “Grampa Hemlock, are you sure it's going to come?”
A flick of an ear was all the answer the colt got.
The colt went back to watching the chicken, but it didn’t last long. After shifting in the dry leaves and rubbing his hooves together, he tried again. “Grandpa…” he started.
The old stallion finally moved; a dry rustling announced the shifting of his head enough to speak out of the side of his mouth. “You saw the tracks, Hickory,” he said in a low voice. “I showed them to you and we tracked him here. Now we wait.”
“But for how long?”
“As long as it takes,” the stallion said, not taking his eyes off of the chicken.
Hickory went back to rubbing his hooves together. He looked at the chicken, at his hooves, and then back to his grandfather. “Do I have to kill it,” he asked, trying not to let his hooves shake.
Grandpa Hemlock finally looked away from the bait and locked his hardened gaze with that of the colt. His jaw worked back and forth while he tried to find the right words. He opened his muzzle but immediately closed it again. Finally, he took a deep breath and his eyes softened. He reached out a comforting hoof. “We could,” he admitted, but he quickly moved to crush the hope he’d seen rise in his grand foal. “But it won't solve the problem. We could build better fences, make a full enclosure, even put out food, but it will still keep coming. It will find a way through and keep on killing. Its taken four chickens already. Do you want it to claim any more?”
Hickory couldn’t meet his grandfather’s eyes, instead watching as he drew small circles in the dirt. “No,” he finally admitted.
Grandpa Hemlock gently patted his younger counterpart on the back. “It’s never easy to take a life. But sometimes, there is no other way,” he said resolutely.
They lay like that for a minute, neither moving or saying a word. Then the old stallion's ears perked up and his face set into a stern frown. “Now get behind your mucket and cock your hammer, because here it comes.”
With shaking hooves, Hickory did as he was told: He pulled the butt stock into his shoulder and lined up the sights. He focused on taking deep breaths, trying to calm his pounding heart. After a moment's thought, he reached up and cocked the hammer and made sure that the priming cap was still in place. Once set, he settled into the leaves and waited.
The chicken was still there but no longer content to nervously cluck. It was now frantically tugging and flapping at the max length of its tether, wanting to be anywhere but there. The reason was soon apparent.
Out stepped a fearsome creature: big lion’s mane, long ears, leathery wings and scorpion tail. Or had been fearsome at one point. The face was hollow, eyes sunken, the once glossy coat was patchy and hung baggy from the creature's frame. The manticore stopped only briefly to glance around before making a beeline for the bait.
“Get ready,” said the old stallion, picking up his own musket. “Aim just ahead of your mark like I taught you”.
But Hickory wasn’t listening anymore. His eyes were dancing between the manticore and the chicken, and back again. He became immediately aware of the shrinking distance between the two and the gut churning choice he had to make. He knew what the manticore would do once it got ahold of the chicken. He had seen the result four times already.
Manticore and chicken.
Manticore and chicken.
One or both would be snuffed out in a movement. He, Hickory, could do it. He just had to pull the trigger. The colt reached for it but paused.
He had done it to apples: watched them explode as he shot them out of a tree, much to the glee of his grandfather, but why couldn't he do it now? The manticore was just like a big apple…but with a life. So why couldn’t he do it?
Manticore and chicken.
The time was now.
Grandpa was telling him to shoot.
Manticore and chicken.
Manticore and chicken.
And then he saw it.
Hickory pulled the stock tightly into his shoulder pocket. He took a deep breath and then released it. One more breath, and then let it go. In, out. In, out. In, and hold, and out, and hold: one one-thousand, two one-thous..and there was a barely audible “click”.
The hammer fell.
Then smoke and fire belched forth and the silence of the forest was shattered with a deafening BANG!
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Grandpa Hemlock slowly trotted up to the scene. A rather reluctant Hickory followed in his wake. The manticore was gone. The chicken was gone. Several days’ worth of work and they would have to start again.
Idly, Hemlock kicked at the broken stake where the shot had severed it. “Come on,” he said to Hickory, “let’s go get your chicken.”