//------------------------------// // Chapter Ten - Tales Tells All // Story: Telling Tales // by James Washburn //------------------------------// Chapter Ten Tales Tells All As Pinkie had said, they were telling stories in Sugarcube Corner. ‘Colgate’ Minuette was holding the floor with a tale about three bears and a blonde filly, while the audience sat around drinking the wide and wonderful selection of warm beverages sold at Sugarcube Corner (only one bit thirty for hot chocolate and a muffin of your choice, offer until this Saturday). And, as Pinkie had also said, Fluttershy was having no part in it. She’d tucked herself into a little yellow and pink ball in the corner, trying to shrink back behind her mane. Pinkie pointed her out to Tales as they walked in the door, and he couldn’t help but feel... irritated, yes, but also sympathetic. Hadn’t he been like that once? He sidled over to her, unnoticed by the others in the cafe (Minuette was good, after all), and took a seat. Pinkie had been talking about Fluttershy all the way back to town, and Tales didn’t fancy his chances. She sounded like the wettest wet blanket in existence. “Hullo,” he said, smiling as kindly as he could. “'lo,”she replied. “So, everyone’s telling stories, huh?” “‘s.” “Do you think you’ll join in?” “No.” “Aw, whyever not?” “Don’ wanna.” Tales bit his lip. “Huh. So, not feeling up to it?” “Too many ponies.” “Come on, don’t be like that,” he said, rolling his eyes. “All your friends are out there, and they told stories.” “All two of them.” He rolled his eyes. “Are you always like this?” There was a pause. “‘s.” Tales sighed. “Sorry.” Behind them, Minuette finished to a round of applause and Fluttershy shrank back even further. Hm, clearly he’d have to do better than just telling her to buck up and be brave. “Well, you wouldn’t be the first to have trouble telling stories,” said Tales, nonchalantly.”There’ve been more than a few ponies who couldn’t bear to.” “Are you going to tell a story about one?” Damn, she caught on fast. “Yes, I am. But this story’s different, on account of it being true.” * * * Once, in the north, there was a pony, and his name was Trotsky McGee. He was not a rich pony. He had no qualifications, no skills, nothing. He worked on farms as hired help, but since no single farm had work all the year round he had to go from place to place, looking for work. This meant that more often than not, he’d have to rely on the kindness of others if he was going to get a bed for the night. Of course, the ponies in the north are a hospitable lot, so anypony travelling far from home could expect to stay at least one night in someone’s house. They’d get food, a bed and rest, provided they gave something in return, which was most commonly a story. Real or made up didn’t matter, so long as you told one. Now this was bad news for Trotsky. He couldn’t tell stories to save his life. He’d turn up at a stranger’s house, receive his food and bed, but when it came to tell a story, he’d curl up in a corner and mutter that he didn’t know any. This, naturally, tended to irritate a lot of ponies. In the best case scenario, he was grudgingly allowed to sleep in the shed. Worst case scenario, he was thrown out. And it was one cold, wet autumn evening when Trotsky was wandering down a long and lonely road when this really got him into trouble. The wind was blowing and the rain was coming down in sheets, turning the path into mud. He stumbled on through it all, wrapping his anorak around himself. He was cold and hungry, and was just on the verge of panic, when he saw a flicker in the gloom. He went towards it, and soon that flicker became a glow, which revealed itself to be a small thatched cottage, with friendly warm light shining through the windows. Trotsky dashed over to the door and hammered on it. It was opened by a short, wide mare with a big grin. “Hullo,” she said, brightly. “Do come inside.” Trotsky thanked her and hopped in. It was warm and cosy inside, a pot of stew bubbling above a blazing fire. Steam rose from Trotsky’s coat. "Hang up your jacket,” said the mare. “So, young colt, what’s your name?” "Trotsky McGee," he said, hanging up his anorak. She gasped and put a hoof over her mouth. Trotsky hoped she hadn’t heard about him and was about to throw him out. Instead, she grinned and shouted, “Moor! Come in here! We’ve been graced with the great Trotsky McGee!” A second mare trotted out, tall and gangly. “Trotsky McGee? Well then, we’d best put some stew out for him, Appletree!” The short mare hustled him over to the dinner table, while the tall mare doled out a bowl of stew for him. Shortly, he had a bowl of stew and a hunk of bread to eat. “Er, how do you know who I am?” said Trotsky, a little uneasily . "Oh everyone knows about Trotsky McGee!” said Appletree, putting a kettle of water on. “When Trotsky McGee comes around, you always give him a bowl of stew, bread, and a cup of cocoa.” Trotsky was a little confused, but didn’t say anything. Soon, he had a cup of hot cocoa steaming by his elbow. “I say, this is very kind of you,” he said. “I don’t suppose I could sleep here?” “But of course!” said Moor, cheerfully doling out stew for herself and Appletree. “When Trotsky McGee comes around, you always give him a bowl of stew, bread, a cup of cocoa and a good bed. You can borrow our bed tonight. We’ll sleep in the spare room, which we wouldn’t dream of inflicting on you.” “That’s very kind of you,” said Trotsky, who was now tucking into his stew. “Oh well, you know what they say,” said Appletree, with a glint in her eye. “When Trotsky McGee comes around, you always give him a bowl of stew, bread, a cup of cocoa and a good bed, because he will always tell you the best stories,” Trotsky spat out his cocoa in surprise. “You WHAT?” “Trotsky McGee always tells the best stories,” Moor repeated, calmly. “I’m sorry, you must have me mixed up with a different Trotsky McGee,” he said, desperately. “I can’t tell stories!” Appletree nudged Moor, still grinning. “You see? So modest these celebrities. Go on, Mr McGee, just a short one.” “I’m sorry,” he said, “but I don’t know any stories. I can’t tell you any.” Moor and Appletree’s faces fell. “You what?” “I can’t tell stories.” Whup. His bowl of stew was gone. Whup. His cocoa was gone. “The nerve,” said Moor, shaking her head solemnly, spooning the stew back into the pot. “Some ponies,” Appletree muttered, drinking Trotsky’s cocoa. “Thinking they can just turn up under an assumed name and fleece a couple of trusting mares like us.” Moor tutted. “It’s not an assumed name, it’s my name,” he protested. “I really am Trotsky McGee!” “You’re clearly not,” said Moor, “otherwise you’d have a story to tell us.” “You’re lucky we’re the kindly sort,” said Appletree, “otherwise we’d throw you out. You can sleep in the spare room. That’s punishment enough, don’t you think?” “Yes,” said Moor, “but you mark my words, we want you out by first light tomorrow.” They hustled him upstairs, muttering about the youth of today (though neither was a day older than Trotsky). They pushed him into the spare room and shut the door sharply, leaving him alone. He slumped down on the bed, which was a plank of wood. He curled up under the thin sheet and sighed. He wondered who the other Trotsky McGee was, and what he was like. Presumably if he was such a success, he wouldn’t have to walk anywhere. Carts would give him a lift in return for a dazzling tale, or he’d make money (actual money!) and be able to take a train. He slept in feather beds every night and ate white bread. Trotsky pulled the sheet around him. Yep, being a storyteller like that’d be alright. He was just dozing on the edge of sleep, when he heard something coming up the stairs. It bumped up slowly, with a thump, thump, thump. He hunkered down under the sheet, hoping the two mares weren’t coming to wreak their revenge. The thump, thump, thump came closer, and then reached the top of the stairs with one final thump! Then, the sound was dragged along the landing, wood scraping on wood. The door to his room creaked open, and three ponies walked in. They were fine unicorn stallions, dressed in top hats and tailcoats, one white, one grey, and one black. They were dragging a coffin behind them, which they laid slowly on the floor. The white one turned to the others. “Who’ll help us carry the coffin?” he said, solemnly. “Who else, but Trotsky McGee?” answered the other two. They took Trotsky by the hooves and dragged him out of bed, then stood him up and lifted one corner of the coffin on to his back. The white unicorn took the other front corner and the grey and black ones too the back corners. Together, they carried the coffin back down the stairs, through the house and out into the night. The weather was clear now, but the ground was still wet. Mud squelched under Trotsky’s hooves and splashed from the white unicorn on to his coat. The white unicorn didn’t seem to be getting any mud on him, though. Bloody magic, he thought. They walked on, for what seemed like miles. The unicorns seemed to be moving just slightly faster than Trotsky. Not so fast they outpaced him, but just fast enough that the coffin bounced and dug into his shoulders. And despite the fact these stallions were clearly so strong and capable, it seemed to Trotsky that all the weight was on him. Eventually, they reached a gateway, overgrown with brambles. The unicorns forged on through it, Trotsky being pushed by the weight of the coffin. Briars and thorns scratched at his legs and sides, drawing blood. Through the gate, was a graveyard. They walked between the headstones, until the three unicorns stopped at an empty plot. “Who’ll dig the grave?” said the grey unicorn. “Who else but Trotsky McGee?” answered the other two. They put the coffin on the ground slowly, and lo and behold, there was a shovel waiting for him. He lifted it and started to dig. The shovel sank into the soft earth easily, but it was still hard work. After what seemed like an age, Trotsky was stood at the bottom of a hole six feet long by two feet wide by six feet deep. He clambered out, and found that the unicorns and lifted the lid off the coffin. It had been empty the whole time! He opened his mouth to say something, but the black unicorn spoke first. “Who’s going to get into the coffin?” "Who else but Trotsky McGee.” He felt two heavy hooves on his shoulders, pushing him into the coffin. He thought to resist, but he couldn’t move a muscle. The unicorns laid him in, crossing his front hooves over his chest, and slowly they levitated the lid down over him. He lay in pitch darkness, his nose just brushing against the lid. He felt them lift the coffin over to the grave and lower it in. The heard them take the shovel and he heard the pitter-patter of soil on the lid of the coffin. And that sound broke whatever spell he was under. He burst out of the coffin, leapt out of the hole, ran through the graveyard, through the brambles, down the road, back to the house, up the stairs and under the sheets where he lay curled up, trembling. Somehow, he went to sleep. The next morning was bright, clear and cool. Trotsky lifted his head slowly, his mind buzzing with thoughts of last night. Who were those unicorns? What had they been doing? No, it didn’t matter now. He was safe. It was all a dream. Except that now, in the light of day, he could see the muddy hoofprints on the floor. His muddy hoofprints. He could feel the bruise on his shoulder where the coffin had dug in, and of course, all down his sides and legs were cuts and scratches from the thorns. He sat for a moment and gaped in shock. After that, he very quickly reached a decision. He jumped out of bed and dashed downstairs. He pulled his anorak on quickly and pushed the door open. Behind him, he heard Moor and Appletree come down the stairs. “Oh, just leaving were we?” said Appletree, snarking all she could. “Damn right I am,” said Trotsky. “I’m not staying a moment later in this house. It’s haunted, or something!” Moor raised an eyebrow. “Haunted?” She walked over to him slowly. “Now this house is many things, but haunted?” “Well, whatever happened to me last night certainly wasn’t natural, whatever it was!” Appletree gave him a curious look. “What exactly happened to you?” So he told them. About the noises in the night, about the three unicorns, about the coffin, the briars, the mud, everything. When he’d finished, Appletree and Moor smiled at each other. “You see?” said Moor, sounding relieved. “Trotsky McGee always tells the best stories.” “The best stories,” said Appletree, smiling oddly, “but I bet he could tell them better.” “What do you mean?” “I mean, we could show you how to tell stories properly. We could make you a storyteller..." * * * “And so they did,” said Tales, smiling faintly. “They taught me everything I know.” Fluttershy’s eyes were wide. “But what about y- what about Trotsky McGee?” He glanced nervously. “I’m Tall Tales now. I... I like it better that way.” Fluttershy nodded slowly. "So, how do you feel about telling now?” Fluttershy thought for a moment. What could she tell? She didn’t know any stories... Wait, what was she saying? Of course she did. What did she tell the little animals to make them go to sleep? What did she hear from Angel? You could learn a lot from animals, she’d found, if you took the time to listen. She stood up and walked into the middle of the room. Tales watched her go for a moment, like a proud engineer watching his ship leave port. Then he went to go and see if he could cadge a cup of hot chocolate. All eyes turned to her (well, most eyes), and Fluttershy felt a hint of fear. She went on regardless. “I’d like to tell a story,” she said, smiling a little uncertainly. “I know this one’s true because I heard it from the squirrel it happened to...”