By the time Pinkie had caught up to the caravan, the midday sun had already breached the clouds and asserted its dominance in the sky. The world baked away in the summer’s dry heat, with the occasional breeze kicking up small piles of dust.
To the average outsider, the atmosphere of this place might have been eerie or disturbing. But to Pinkie, it was the only world she had ever known. She marched along excitedly as the group navigated the rocky terrain, marveling at the freedom she was experiencing and the strange mix of emotions it brought about.
“On one hoof, I’m like very, very, very thrilled to see the whole wide world and all the different types of ponies. Oh, oh, and all the different types of parties! Oh, my cutiemark! See, look, it's three balloons because I throw parties and make ponies happy, or at least I think that’s what they mean. S-so, now I get to learn about the different parties that different types of ponies throw in the whole wide world!” Pinkie exclaimed with a hop, but as quickly as she perked up, she seemed to deflate.
“But then I think about my ma and pa and all my sisters…I’m going to miss them so, so, much. We live around these parts a-and I’ve never been apart from them. I just wish I could carry them around in my saddle bag and take them to see the whole world too! But I don’t think Limestone would like that too much, and ma would probably disapprove of how messy it is. Maud might like it though! But I don’t know, what do you think?”
Despite the plethora of words Pinkie had spoken into the normally hushed atmosphere, Rusted Peddler could not think of one word to utter in reply. Perhaps it was due to the sheer speed at which she spoke, the sheer volume, or the simple fact that he had no idea where this child had come from, but he was stumped.
It was rather unusual for an experienced salespony, such as Rusted Peddler, to be at a loss for words. But the last few days traversing the Southwestern territories had proven tedious, if not completely exhausting. He had hoped that he was tapping into an untapped market by selling to the folks in the area, but it became apparent that there was a reason why some places were left untouched.
The rock farmers proved to be untalkative and reluctant to change. When he traveled further West, he found the herders of the area to be more talkative but equally as reluctant. Ultimately, his journey south was a bust. All he had gained from his troubles were sore hooves, an empty wallet, and a terrible sunburn on his back.
And now, to make matters worse, some unattended kid was chatting his ear off and showing no signs of stopping. He grimaced and looked inward, hoping the filly would take the hint. But she just kept looking up at him with innocent and expectant eyes, sucking out the last remains of patience that he had.
He silently thanked Celestia when something or somepony ahead of him grabbed her attention, causing her to yelp in excitement and scamper away. He let out a sigh and continued trudging along absentmindedly until he heard something groaning beside him.
Rusted followed the noise, spotting an elderly donkey. Rusted knew that most of the donkeys in the area were herders, but something about this particular jack seemed different from the rest. The donkey appeared just as eager to leave this place as Rusted was, but his old age was causing him some difficulty.
Rusted watched him sympathetically before the donkey noticed, and the pair locked eyes. It was then that the old donkey shot one of the nastiest scowls the defeated salespony had ever seen. Rusted stopped dead in his tracks, allowing the donkey to gain some distance away from him.
Rusted looked up at the unforgiving sun, almost impressed by how this experience continued to make him miserable. He rolled his eyes and resolved to move forward, muttering as he did.
“I gotta get out of this place and away from these weirdos.”
After spending the majority of the long day traveling, the members of the Gentle Smithing Caravan were treated to a decadent display of stars patterning the expansive night sky. With the arrival of the night came a brief reprieve from the group’s walking. Campfires were built and folks settled down. Some pitched their lodgings while others exchanged goods, items, and stories.
All in all, there was a general sense of mirth accented with a buzz of anticipation as some members of the group eagerly awaited their next adventure. Some were returning home after long expeditions away, while others were enjoying a trip from their normal lives. Quite a few were simply about their business, fulfilling their destinies of traveling for various reasons. As for a few unfortunate members, there was no such joy or enchantment, leaving them with little desire to share or mingle.
One of these few is none other than Cranky Doodle Donkey, who made a point of isolating himself from the group. Well, most of the group that is, since somepony took it upon herself to join him without asking.
She sat on her haunches in plain view of Cranky, wrapped tightly in a quilt and silently staring at him. He wasn't sure if her sparkling eyes were reflecting the night sky or were simply capable of shimmering on their own, but he was thoroughly unnerved by it. He had seen, or more fittingly, heard her zipping throughout the caravan, annoying members with drawn-out barrages of words and intrusive questions.
During his travels, Cranky had learned the value of a good scowl, but even his best and nastiest failed to faze the young foal. She had set her sights on him, and now he was legitimately having to consider talking to her. He knew that kids were not always the best at picking up social cues, so maybe a miserable conversation would successfully ward her off permanently.
He reluctantly cleared his throat and dryly asked, “What do you want kid?”
The kid immediately perked up at the question, blinking rapidly and plastering a lopsided smile on her face. She spoke with the unassuming eagerness typical for a child, “Are you a donkey?”
Sweet Celestia, Cranky thought, having endured this line of questioning many times throughout his life. He weighed his options and answered sarcastically.
“I sure am kid, what gave it away?”
The foal placed a hoof on her chin and hummed as she thought it over. Cranky rolled his eyes while she contemplated, recalling all the typical answers to this particular question. Maybe she’ll mention how weirdly long my face is, or how freakishly big my ears are, or maybe how my tail looks like a cow's, he thought with a soured expression.
“Well, it was kinda easy,” the foal began, "you only have five lumbar vertebrae while most ponies have six!”
Her quilt hung loosely as the foal twisted around to show off her back and gestured to her spine with a hoof. Thoroughly caught off guard, Cranky found himself involuntarily looking at his own back quizzically.
“Wait…what?”
The foal giggled to herself before continuing, “Oh, and your face is kinda long! It’s just like my guidebook says! It also says that donkeys tend to be ‘stubborn, stoical, and simple.’”
“Right, right,” Cranky muttered, looking around the camp, “Where are your parents, kid?”
The child’s giggle died down, and her expression became somber. “Back at home.”
“They let you travel all alone?” Cranky questioned with a raised eyebrow.
The foal nodded and pulled her quilt back over herself. The covering looked carefully sewn. It was ornately covered in flawless geometric patterns in muted colors. If it were not clear to Cranky at first, it certainly was now. He had almost forgotten where he was and what group of ponies dominated this area.
“You must be Plain.”
“Wow! I am, how did you know!” the foal exclaimed, quick to return to her prior cheeriness. Cranky questioned how she was still so energetic after the long day.
Cranky scratched the side of his head. “The only ponies still crazy enough to let a kid as young as you venture around Equestria alone are ponies that still think they're living hundreds of moons in the past.”
“Hey!” The foal hollered in offense, she furrowed her brow, and asserted each word of defense with a nod, “My parents don’t think they are living hundreds of moons in the past. My pa even has a calendar that says we’re living very much in the present moon. And I’m not that young, just a bit small for my age, thank you!”
For the first time in the entire day, Cranky found himself somewhat amused. She had seemed a little annoyed by his comment, he continued the conversation with a casual tone and wry smile, “Right. Although I gotta say, you're nothing like any of the Plain ponies I’ve met.”
Something like sadness arose in the filly’s eyes as she absentmindedly played with her hooves. “Yeah, I’m a little…different from everypony else,” she mumbled, watching the ground closely.
Cranky held his breath, wondering if he had succeeded where so many others had failed. The kid was quiet for the first time since joining the group, overtaken by a pensive and heavy silence.
She sniffed and looked over her shoulder, taking in the illumination provided by a campfire not too far away. But almost as quickly as her sadness set in, it dissipated and was replaced by an insatiable curiosity.
“You’ve met other Plain ponies?”
“Of course,” Cranky answered, deeply disappointed by her immaculate emotional comeback.
“I've seen donkeys before. They come from San Palomino with their herds and pass by the village,” she explained excitedly, “So are you a herder, or a cowboy, or dare I say a buck-aroo?” The foal questioned, emphasizing the final (and most enjoyable to say) word.
“All of those words mean the same thing, but none of them apply to me,” Cranky explained with a bitter expression. He could tell that the foal had no intention of leaving any time soon, so he continued, “I guess you could call me a traveler. I did come from this region, but I don’t belong anywhere.”
The child studied him with a sappy doe-eyed look, just oozing with unwanted sympathy. “Everypony’s got to belong somewhere…I guess donkeys don’t have cutiemarks, but if you had one, what would it be?”
“Well kid, I think you gave the answer away in the question. Everypony’s got to belong somewhere, but not everydonkey. My kind aren’t so easily swayed by destinies or purposes. I move from town to town, making a few bits working odd jobs and whatnot to keep myself moving.”
“I guess that makes sense,” the foal answered, briefly tucking her head under her quilt to examine her cutiemark. “I’m not too sure where I belong either. That’s why I’m striking out on my own, to learn more about myself! Hellooooo Equestria! First stop Ponyville, next stop who knows!”
It seemed that the current topic of conversation had completely reinvigorated the filly while rendering Cranky quite exhausted. She hopped up onto her hind legs and held up a triumphant forehoof. The universe itself seemed to encourage her behavior as a breeze blew at the quilt hanging around her neck, giving her the appearance of a tiny superhero. Cranky watched the absurd display with disinterest until the filly’s statement struck him.
“Ponyville?” he asked with mounting confusion.
The filly broke her pose to look at him and spoke succinctly, “Yeah, Ponyville.”
“Uh, kid? We’re not going to Ponyville. This caravan is heading to Dodge Junction.”
There was a sudden silence between the pair as they stared at each other in equal bewilderment. Although words were absent, meaning was conveyed at a rapid rate. Neither was joking, and both had spoken under the assumption that they were correct. But, only one of them was correct, and both knew exactly who it was.
What followed was what Cranky would have considered a textbook example of the veracity of the phrase; The road to Tartarus is paved with good intentions. He had acted upon his first impulse to correct the kid, but he should have known that she would react to the bad news as any kid probably would. With a total meltdown, figuratively and literally. She seemed to dissolve under her quilt into a puddle of weeping and hiccupping.
“What am I gonna do! I was supposed to go to Ponyville, I told ma and pa that I would go to Ponyville!”
“I’m sorry to say this, but we’re definitely not going to Ponyville,” Cranky reiterated with a cringe.
“Oh no,” the foal cried out in despair, she looked out at the dark horizon with wide eyes. “D-do you think I should go back? To my home I mean. I shouldn’t have left home…I-I already messed this up.”
“No,” Cranky said, much quicker and more decisively than he intended, “That is a very bad idea. I’m sure your folks would prefer you wind up in the wrong town, then walk all the way back home by yourself.”
There were many tragedies and misfortunes that could befall anybody foolish enough to venture around the region completely alone. This only became more truthful with inexperience and was made even worse by the age of the individual.
“B-but this isn’t how things were supposed to go,” she explained. Her tiny pink head peaked out from under her quilt, just enough for Cranky to see her eyes saturated with tears.
He sighed, resolving himself to fate. He scooted closer to her and spoke decisively, “Listen, kid…I’m going to tell you something much more valuable than any ‘fact’ in that silly guidebook of yours. Sometimes we make plans, and they rarely work out perfectly. Yeah, it pays to know how to think ahead, but you also need to know how to work on your hooves. Roll with the punches and keep it moving.”
The filly raised her head a bit as some of the strength returned to her voice. “What do you think I should do?”
Cranky sighed and thought it over. “Go to Dodge. Write your folks and explain the situation. It’ll take a few more days to get to Ponyville than you all planned. I believe the Eastern Friendship Express line just hit Dodge, so you might be able to take the train that’ll pass through Ponyville on the way to Canterlot. If not, join another caravan and head to Baltimare since you can catch a train to Canterlot from there, then head to Ponyville.”
“Okie dokie, go to Dodge Junction, then take the train to Ponyville,” the foal repeated, wiping tears from her eyes.
Cranky sat in silence as her hiccups and sobs dwindled into sniffles, and was amazed at how her very aura shifted in mere seconds. Perhaps it was due to the poor lighting, but Cranky could have sworn that the pink filly’s coat had changed shades. And he was certain that her wild and curly mane had essentially burst and straightened itself out. Now, as she recovered, the curls seemed to coil themselves as she considered the new plan.
Finally, after a few minutes of repeating Cranky’s idea, she smiled and spoke, “And this way, I get to take a train.”
“You sure do. I’m guessing you’ve never been on a train before?”
“No siree! But I’ve heard all about them! They're big and metal-ly, and they run on coal! Oh, oh, and they’re connecting all of Equestria like a big octopus!” she shouted, squeezing herself in a tight hug, “An octopus that uses its tentacles to pull all of Equestria in a big hug, so ponies can visit each other more often!”
Despite himself, Cranky smiled at the image that the foal had described. He supposed that she wasn’t far off with her analogy. If Canterlot was the head, then the railroad was its arms, stretching to and connecting the farthest corners of Equestria. The expansion project began just in time for the aging donkey to continue his travels without having to walk everywhere.
“I have to say, trains are wonderful. I envy your generation. Back in my day, only a few major cities had them, and only because the fancy folk needed to get to Canterlot. Now small towns like Dodge, with us common folk, can get places easier,” Cranky admitted.
“I heard the train can run faster than any earthpony! And bet if it could fly, it would fly faster than any pegasus. Oh I’m so excited, I can’t wait for tomorrow!” cheered the foal. Even in the darkness of night, she seems to twinkle and shine with pure optimism.
To Cranky, it felt like the conversation had come to a natural conclusion as even the foal grew silent. He waited for her to rejoin the others by the campfire, and finally leave him be. Instead, she placed her saddlebag on the ground and pulled her quilt to cover her. She nestled into the ground and used her saddlebags as a pillow. Cranky, not having much left to fight, made himself comfortable. He unraveled his sleeping bag and crawled in with a yawn.
“Goodnight kid,” Cranky mumbled without thinking.
“And goodnight to you si-” the filly suddenly stopped, popping up from her resting place abruptly with a wide-eyed stare.
“Oh no, I’m so sorry sir,” she cried with a quivering lip. “I didn’t ask you your name.”
Now she cares about social convention. Cranky thought with a snort. He sat up just enough to look at the foal directly. “The names Cranky Doodle Donkey, just call me Cranky.”
The foal sniffled before giving him a resolute nod and smile. “Hiya Cranky! My name is Pinkamena Diane Pie, but just call me Pinkie!”
“Right. Well, goodnight Pinkie,” Cranky said, laying back down.
“And a good night to you Mr. Cranky!”