Cayenne rested on the roof line of a convenient house, her hind legs dangling gracelessly to either side of its peak, while she rested her chin on her forelegs. Warming her wings under the early morning sun, she would have been easy to see, had anyone cared to look up. Her lime-green coat was hardly camouflage, and it contrasted strongly with her deep red mane and tail. Still, earth ponies rarely did look up, which was fine with her. Pony-watching was more fun if they didn’t know they were being watched.
Tinsel, an ice-blue unicorn with a white mane, trotted past, apparently on yet another errand. She passed a herd of foals from the Apple family, excitedly gathered about an older yellow-coated mare with a pink bow in her red mane. Her own foal was snoozing on her withers. They followed her in the opposite direction, demanding to hear about her cutie mark story, making quite the ruckus. As Cayenne’s gaze drifted past, she was surprised to find herself staring into the eyes of a dusky grey stallion with a greying curly mane, who smiled a moment at her, then continued walking towards the town square.
Ol’ Smudge had been the town’s odd-job pony for as long as she could remember. She recalled that he’d helped put the roof on the new school when she was just a foal, and she was several years past that now. She had her cutie mark, after all: the pepper emblem was the same brilliant hue as her mane and tail, and it was ringed in orange flames that matched her eyes.
How had he noticed her? Did he know she did this often? Curiosity piqued, she followed him at a distance, flitting from rooftop to rooftop.
She realized he was somewhat of a mystery.
Oh, he wasn’t unknown, quite the opposite. Every family in town had hired the stallion for something or other, and he did solid, honest work. He would make this journey every morning, waiting in the town square until someone asked him for help.
He was at least twice her age, possibly thrice, and ruggedly handsome in her opinion, but with eyes that seemed to gaze through you. Absentminded and easily distracted, he had dabbled with apprenticeships throughout Hoofington but had never settled in to master any one craft. And now, he worked when he was needed, where he was needed, as often as he could set hooves to a task.
That gave her an idea. A mystery he would be no longer, she decided. Before she was aware, she was halfway home to ask her parents if they needed any help about town.
“Absolutely not!” her mother had declared. “You should leave Mr. Smudge be. He harms no-one, helps a great many, and is a genuinely kind pony.”
The upbraiding had continued for some time. Still, once Cayenne made up her mind, it was difficult to dissuade her. Once the tempest abated, she returned to her room. Pulling a small coffer from a hiding space, she opened it gingerly. She had no bits, but she took out a gem she had found on a mountain peak, and a phoenix feather dropped by Celestia’s pet, some years ago. Perhaps she could get something for them at the trading post.
She flew back to town and lit upon the ground just outside the shop. A bell chimed as she entered, and the proprietor, a faded blue unicorn with a white mane and tail, shouted a welcome from the back room.
“Well, howdy, Cayenne,” he drawled. “Didn’t ‘spect t’ see you in here today. Is this business or a social call?”
“Afternoon, Silv - er, Mr. Scales.” She faintly bowed her head in greeting. “Business, I’m afraid. I’d like to see if these trinkets are worth anything.” With that, she set them on the counter.
Silver Scales whistled when he saw the phoenix feather. “That there is powerful interesting. I know just the p- well, creature, who’d be interested in that. The gem ain’t worth much - a few bits at most. It’s a pretty color but not really a rare one.” He magicked up a small book, filled with tiny lines of neat numbers, and flipped forward a few pages, then pursed his lips in thought.
“Would you take, say, 100 bits for the lot?”
“One hundred?!”
“Well, I might manage s’more if I were certain t’were a need for the feather, but,”
“No, no, that’s far more than I expected. That’d be fine. That’d be just fine.”
“A deal then.” The feather and gem vanished into the back room, a well-worn spell the unicorn hardly had to trigger as he dug into a small pouch.
“Do you have a... no, you don’t. Here.” He set the pouch on the counter top. “100, if I count aright, and I’ll throw the pouch in for free.”
She picked it up and rested it on her back. It was heavier than it looked.
“Wow, thank you. Thank you a lot.”
“My pleasure, Cayenne. Say hello to your folks for me. And if you see Tinsel about, send her on back won’t you?”
“Of course!” She headed for the door, then paused. “Mr. Scales?”
“Yes, dear?”
“Does ol’ Sm, uh.” Her bad habits were getting the better of her. “Does Mr. Smudge come in here, often?”
“Often? No, can’t say that he does. But frequently enough that I keep a few things in store for him.”
“Like what?”
He scowled. “Now, that’s personal business. Run along.”
“Yes, sir,” she answered quickly, feeling the heat on her cheeks. So many rules, so much ‘propriety’. She was still getting the hang of it.
By the time she reached the square, Smudge was long gone, and the pouch was getting heavier. She decided to stop by the Tack House - a local clothier - and buy a pair of bags so she could more evenly distribute the weight. Besides, she’d need the bags if she were going to flight school that fall.
A few bits later, she felt steady enough to take back to the skies. With a few beats of her wings, she was soon doing lazy circles over the town. It was harder to gain altitude with the bags, but manageable, and she kept one eye out for that familiar grey coat.
He wasn’t in the fields, but with harvest weeks off yet, that wasn’t surprising. Not near the lake either. Perhaps he was indoors? The smithy, maybe. He seemed to go there often. No, wait. There he was, on the outskirts of town. Was he heading home?
She altered her course, steadied herself, and lost a bit of altitude in the process.
There was a building there, in the distance, nestled in the trees. She adjusted towards it, but soon had to land, unaccustomed to the extra weight.
By the time she arrived, Smudge was sitting on a wide, flat step outside the large door, looking towards the woods. He was apparently lost in thought, and Cayenne cleared her throat softly.
“Uh, Mr. Sm-”
“Shh...” he rumbled. “Just a moment. Don’t move.”
Cayenne froze, partly because she was told, and partly out of shock. She’d never heard him speak more than two or three words.
He continued to stare into the woods. What did he see that she didn’t? Her eyes were stronger than his, that she knew. Not liking to be bested, she stopped searching, and instead investigated her immediate surroundings.
The single-story barn was old - possibly older than Smudge. Its timbers were well-weathered and grey, blending into the woods. The slate roof was covered in fallen brush - Smudge wouldn’t have been able to reach the top to clear it. Past the open door, she saw a surprisingly small single room. To the left, an iron stove rested in the corner, a pot balanced atop it, and nearby sat a pallet of quilts. On the right side was a small table, a shelf with a few dishes and books, and a small chest. Mismatched lamps kept the room well-lit, and it seemed warm and homey enough.
But what caught her fancy was the second door. Iron-bound and set with a solid lock, it commanded attention as it stood, stoically, against an otherwise blank wall. Her inspection was cut short as the older stallion stood, shook out his shaggy mane, and leaned back, stretching his forelegs.
He turned to her, and smiled warmly, and waited.
“Oh! I’m Cayenne, Mr. Smudge, and I, uh...” she froze, realizing she had prepared nothing.
“I know you, Cayenne.” His voice was deep, and his words almost painfully slow, like stones being tilled out of soil. “You’re the one that likes the rooftops.”
“Y-yes sir.”
“No need for sirs,” he ground on. “How can I help?”
Help. Yes! Help! She wanted to hire him, to learn more about him, but what? Her mind raced.
“Can’t think of it now?” He had noticed. “No matter.” He turned to go inside, then paused, and glanced over his shoulder. “Hungry?”
“Uh,” her stomach convinced her to tell the truth. “Yes, a little.”
“C’mon in. Don’t have much company. You’re welcome to join me.” He shouldered the large sliding door open the rest of the way, and trudged towards the stove.
Cayenne followed, and paused at the threshold. She glanced once over her shoulder at the darkening sky, and stepped inside.
She didn’t know how long she had been inside, and cared less. Ol’ Smudge, if slow to speak, was a gracious host, serving up as many ladles of his hearty stew as she wanted. Between bites, he regaled her, in his own fashion, with tales from his childhood. For her part, Cayenne listened attentively, patiently waiting for him to finish his thoughts, enthralled by the earth pony’s view of the world. He had such an appreciation for nature, especially the woodlands, and a surprising depth of knowledge about its creatures.
When he got up to refill a bowl, or check on the fire, she took a turn. No matter what she shared, he would smile faintly, the corners of his eyes crinkling with understanding, and amusement.
From time to time, however, he would pause, as if hearing something, and tilt his head, staring out into the night-cloaked woods. When he did, she found her eyes drifting back to the door, her curiosity growing. These little reveries did not take long, and without fail the two of them were back to laughing and sharing.
The noise would explain why she had neither heard her parents land outside, nor heard them approach, nor noticed when the slate-grey mare stood behind her. Smudge’s eyes went wide, but not quickly enough...
“CAYENNE.” Her mother’s imperial tone was unmistakable, and the filly leapt in surprise, spilling her stew. Turning in midair, she landed clumsily on all fours, her wings akimbo, and looked for all the world like a foal caught in a prank. Her mother glared down at her, chest out, hooves together.
“WHAT,” her mother began, then took a breath. Tossing her sky blue mane in frustration, she continued in a low fury, sapphire eyes glittering with danger. “What... are you doing here? We’ve been worried sick, your father and I. It’s past midnight! You’re lucky I remembered you mentioning Mr. Smudge, or else we’d still be searching!”
As if summoned, Smudge stood, and picked up the bowl before moving away from the table. “Ma’am, I-”
He found a stocky white pegasus in his way, red eyes burning, short red mane bristling. Cayenne’s father stood there, motionless and silent, as his wife bustled the filly away from the house.
“But, mother,” Cayenne began.
“No. We’re leaving now, young lady. Go, or so help me I’ll have your father drag you.”
His family far enough from the confused earth pony, the pegasus turned away and followed them home.
“We were talking,” Smudge said to himself. He gazed at the floor, the events of the evening replaying. He found himself missing her company - it was refreshing to find someone with the willingness to slow down.
His eyes fell upon something by the table. Cayenne had left her bags. Mumbling, he picked them up, and set them on the table so he would remember them in the morning. With a heavy sigh, he rolled the door shut, blew out the lamps, and curled up on his pallet.
The next morning, Smudge picked up the saddlebags, and rested them haphazardly across his back. They were sized for a much smaller pony. He made a curious sight as he plodded into town, his eyes locked on the rooftops rather than the road ahead, and the early risers often did doubletakes.
Reaching the square, Smudge paced restlessly and, for the first time in memory, refused offers of work. Instead, he would ask anyone who approached if they had seen the lime green pegasus with the vibrant red mane. Soon, everyone in town knew of his question, if not why, but by the end of the day neither Cayenne nor her parents had been seen.
He left, that evening, without finding his quarry. The next day, he returned, once again refusing for work as he waited for a word.
This continued for four days, when a change began to overtake him.
Smudge was anxious, afraid, and... angry. He couldn’t remember being angry, but he took to it like a familiar dance. Matching the scowl on his face, his thoughts turned dark. What did her parents imagine? What stories had they told themselves? What were they doing with the fiery filly? Why couldn’t he have one friend? As the last rays of light faded over the horizon, he reared up on his hindlegs, and bellowed in frustration. Nearby townsfolk gasped as he leapt forward, running back towards his home, grateful for the shroud of night hiding his tears.
After that, he was nowhere to be found.
“Mr. Smudge?”
Smudge’s sleep was fitful, restless. The dream again. He knew he was dreaming, but he didn’t care. Maybe this time...
He would enter town, looking for Cayenne. Sometimes, he would be alone, the town empty. Sometimes, he would be alone, by virtue of being ignored. And on rare occasions, he would be chased out of town, the other ponies shouting the most bizarre accusations. But he had never found her, and he knew time was short.
“Mr. Smudge?!”
The old stallion stirred from his pallet, and shook himself awake. He had thought-
“Mr. Smudge!”
He had heard! Stumbling over himself, he clattered across the cluttered floor and pushed open the large door. It groaned, unaccustomed to being opened quickly, if at all. There, in the sunlight, was Cayenne. Wait. Full sunlight? How long had he slept this time?
“Smudge! I thought you were in there!” She bounced forward, giddy, flitting with her wings, and leaned up against the old pony. “I was so worried. I missed you, Smudge.”
“I missed you too, Cop- Cayenne”, he rumbled, his head a dizzying cloud. “I truly did.” He paused, looking her over best he could, drinking her in, as she leaned into his shaggy coat. “Where have you been?”
“My parents... well, we went back to Cloudsdale. My mother was in hysterics that whole night. My father insisted we go. I couldn’t get away, until it was closer to admissions.”
He blinked, blearily, at the sunlit world. How long had he been in a haze? How long had he been going through the motions? He turned to look over the untidy, unkempt mess about his home. She stepped back, and finally saw him. “By Celestia... are you okay?”
He looked down at himself. His gray coat was shaggy and ungroomed, his fetlocks caked with dirt and coal dust. He stepped over, cautiously, to a brass pot hanging just inside the barn, and looked at his face.
He looked old.
He felt old.
His mane and tail were irrevocably tangled. The knots would have to be cut out. His eyes were weary and red-rimmed, heavily lidded.
“You look sick, Smudge,” Cayenne murmured, worry creeping into her voice.
He paused in his examination, and then moved deeper into the barn. Clattering noises, then the sound of something being dragged, and more odd sounds rattled out. “Smudge?” She called after him. “Smuuudge?!”, a note of panic beginning to edge in.
“Just a moment,” he replied.
He came back out, then, her saddlebags in his teeth, and gently placed them on her shoulders. “There,” he said, as he took a step back and regarded her. “You had left those.”
“Oh, Smudge, I didn’t come back for that,” she pleaded. “I came back for you. I missed my friend.”
He stumbled.
“But we hardly know each other.”
“That’s the neat thing about friends,” she said simply. “You’re supposed to learn all that on the way.”
He smiled, then--an earnest smile, a flicker of flame dancing in his ancient heart. “I think... I’d like that.” Turning once again into his barn, he picked up a small pouch and lazily looped its string around his neck. It jingled quietly in protestation. “Let’s go to town.”
As they walked into Hoofington, the energetic filly talking all the while about her hopes for flight school, the old stallion reminisced. So much joy had been brought to him by the most unexpected ponies, who had seemed much wiser than he.
They stopped first at a cafe’, Cayenne insisting he eat, and her expression brooking no argument. Smudge complied, amused at her insistence, and found the apple pie was superb, the coffee bracing. He sat back, satisfied, and set down his bag to pay. “Oh no, dear,” replied the waitpony with a smile. “That’s already been handled.”
Their next stop was the farrier. This was his call. A coat-brushing and clip later - the clip took some time - and he looked like a new pony. Again, he reached for his pouch to pay, only to be told it had been taken care of.
Their last stop was Silver Scales’ trading post, at Cayenne’s prodding. “Come on,” she said, her voice taking on the commanding tones of her mother. “Miss Scootaloo says I need some materials for the first few weeks. We might as well get them here.” He deferred to her, just happy to see her so pleased. As he browsed, he noticed her speaking with Mr. Scales, and slipping him a small stack of bits. Ah, that explained the earlier shops.
He picked up his backlog of parcels, tightly wrapped in oiled paper, and slung them over his shoulders. She finished shopping and joined him outside. “I’m still hungry,” he said. She turned towards the cafe, again, and he shook his head. “Home cooking, if that’s okay.” She paused, and looked at him, her expression unreadable. Finally, she nodded, and walked back with him, at his side.
They walked in silence for a time, her eyes in the clouds, his at the road ahead. They passed the edge of town, and he stopped, stone-still.
She had taken a few steps before she realized. Turning, she looked at him, and was surprised to find his cheeks damp.
“Smudge? A-”
“Shh...” he glanced up, and looked at her, and smiled.
“B-”
“Thank you.”
“What, for today? Don’t worry about it. The bits aren’t-”
“For coming back.”
“Oh.”
He stepped forward again, and nipped at her ear playfully as he passed.
“Help an old pony home, won’t you?”
“Yes sir,” she teased.
They had stew for lunch, as she expected. Then, they talked most of the afternoon and into the evening, and it was time for stew again. She served it this time, and he set the table. When she brought the bowls back, she was surprised to see a tiny carved box bound with a faded purple bow.
“Smudge. What is that?”
“After dinner.”
“...kay.”
They returned to their bantering, and soon dinner was done. Smudge stood, and Cayenne reached for the empty bowls.
“Leave ‘em?”
He walked outside, and laid down to rest on the weathered stone step.
She followed, curious, and sat down beside him.
They enjoyed the silence for a moment, when Smudge tilted his head towards hers.
“You remind me... of a friend,” he began.
“I am a friend,” she offered.
“That’s true.”
Silence fell again. They listened to an owl hoot its evening welcome.
“Who was this friend?” she asked.
He smiled wistfully. “There was a filly named Copper Key.” He paused, and seemed to steel himself. “She was pale, and beautiful, and she was dying.”
“Dying?” Cayenne seemed troubled. “I don’t...”
“I didn’t know it then. I’m not the cleverest of ponies.”
Cayenne opened her mouth to comment further, but then she saw the effort in his eyes. She let him continue.
“Her family had come down from Manehattan. Something about the clean air of Ponyville, and the Everfree Forest.”
“Ponyville?”
“Where I’m from.”
“Oh.”
“We only knew each other a short time. A few months. But I fell in love, and she loved me, and we were happy.”
Cayenne gave a half-smile, her eyes twinkling with sadness.
“I didn’t have my cutie mark, then. She did.” His voice grew stronger, more confident. ”A shining golden padlock with a heart-shaped keyhole. She wore... a cloak. A cape. Green. She was always cold.”
Cayenne glanced back at his cutie mark, the familiar acorn cap she’d seen so many times before.
“I never asked her what she thought her mark meant. It’s awfully personal.” His voice began to change, sounding more youthful. More certain. “But for me, it meant she was someone who wanted to know my secrets, and keep them safe.”
“We spoke every night, about nothing at all. And every day we would smile at each other in passing. It was enough, and more than enough. Everypony should be so lucky to have such a friend.” He paused. “And I’ve been lucky enough to have two.”
Cayenne blushed beneath her coat, too embarrassed to meet his gaze.
He glanced back at her cutie mark, and murmured, “Fire and spice. I suppose you’ve brought that to this old stallion’s life as well.” He rose, slowly, to his feet. She saw him, then, silhouetted against the starry blue sky. He looked stronger than she remembered. Powerful. And infinitely troubled. And then he bent down, and kissed her, timidly, on the cheek. ”And for that, I thank you.”
He turned, and walked into the barn, pausing a moment at the door to glance at her. As he entered, she rose, and followed behind.
She laid down with him, then, a friend, and a companion. Together, they rested, side by side in silence, hearing only each other breathe, feeling only each other’s warmth against the rapidly cooling night.
When Cayenne woke the next morning, Smudge was gone. He had been busy while she slept. The barn was swept, the dishes clean, and the small carved box rested on the table, still tied with a bow. She stood, and saw that it held down a slip of paper.
The paper, in turn, held six words. “Dearest Cayenne,” it read, in flowing letters, written in charcoal. “It’s yours. Love, Smudge.”
She stared at the box for a long time, and then reached down, and untied the bow.
Smudge was almost to Ponyville when he turned and entered the forest. He still knew the way after all these years, even though the road was not recognizable. Ponyville had grown, and Sweet Apple Acres was actually within the town limits now. He picked his way through the underbrush, in the faint sunlight of early dawn, and eventually found himself at a clearing, surrounded by broken trunks of weathered maples. In the center was a small depression.
He neared the center, and paused. With a weary hoof, he dug an acorn, cap and all, out of the ground. He polished it against his coat, and then settled down on the cool earth. Cradling the acorn against his chest, he sighed, and then he was gone.
Cayenne put the old copper key in the lock, and turned it. The old tumblers fell, well-oiled, and the door swung open into darkness. Lifting a lamp from the wall, she lit it, and stepped inside. Then, she sat, unable to continue.
The room was filled - every surface, every wall, and every beam - with the world. In brilliant strokes, nature was captured to the page. Birds sang silently from above. Rabbits, stoats, mice, and even skunks gathered, motionless now, about the pillars. Trees, flowering plants, shrubs, and exotic cacti bloomed everywhere... and then there were the ponies.
She knew them all.
The baker smiled at a customer, here. The smith reworked a pitchfork. Silver Scales played with his new foal, Tinsel. Pegasus, unicorn, pony, they all breathed on their pages. Further on, huge sheets of paper swayed, decorated with a hundred images of the Princesses, Celestia and Luna, as they visited their subjects.
No wonder Smudge had spotted her. He watched ponies, too.
She walked further in, and found, behind the Princesses’ banners, just two more sketches above a cluttered desk, festooned with scraps of oiled paper.
To the left was a delicate, almost frail earth pony. She had a dancer’s legs and a regal bearing, and her hazel eyes glittered with mischief. Her coat was a faint jade green, almost white. Her mane and tail were a deep forest green, worn long, but they were thinning - only a few hairs grew high enough on her neck to fall as a forelock, and her tail was more of a suggestion than a reality. She sat against a weathered tree trunk. She was beautiful. And she was dying.
To the right was an athletic lime-green pegasus, eyes flashing, red mane and tail billowing about her as she traversed the sky, her face set with determination against the troubles of the world. She, too, had a regal bearing, and proud, but her gaze held a sense of wonder. She was beautiful. And she lived to the fullest.
She turned, taking it all in. And she noticed that on every picture there was hidden, somewhere, a tiny acorn cap. A signature, she guessed. There was one on the skunk’s tail. Another on Celestia’s horn. One nestled between Luna’s wings. She turned again, and examined the two portraits - and found them, over each pony’s heart.
Half a mile into the woods along Sweet Apple Acres - not too close to the Everfree Forest, and just out of sight of Ponyville - stands a ring of ancient stumps. Long dead, their bark has peeled away, their trunks polished by wind, and rain, and the passage of time into a honey-golden hue. They are broken, splintered, yet their wood is smooth and warm to the touch.
In their center stands a mighty oak, ancient and massive. Its trunk is a dusky gray, its roots raven black. In its branches, it holds aloft - proudly, joyously - a bough of beautiful, delicate leaves of a singular jade hue, almost white. There is a peace, here. An understanding.
The pegasus family that watches over it calls it an old friend, but none could tell you who planted it, or when.
Continued in Two Chances.