Epilogue: Desert Plains
What is “home,” really? Is it a stable structure, an enclosed building, with a living room, kitchen, bathroom and at least one bedroom? Is it something somepony acquires when a title deed is signed? Can only houses and mansions be homes, or are apartments equally valid? What about shacks, barns, hotels, carriages, boats—are these also homes? And if so, what is a home then, if it ceases to have a concrete, architectural basis?
Or, maybe, home is a feeling, a feeling as old as time, a feeling of belonging and love and inclusion. “Home is where the heart is,” as wise ol’ They always say. Perhaps, then, home is wherever somepony feels the safest, the warmest, the most known and understood.
Could the road also be home?
Travel was traditionally reserved in Equestria as a hobby and a pastime, a special occasion for vacations, breaks, holidays, reunions, and last-minute rushes to dying relatives. Full-time travel was the pursuit of traveling sales-ponies, musicians, magicians, jugglers, and others whose careers ebbed and flowed with local economies. Foals could reasonably expect maybe one or two moves in their lives—usually initiated after marriage or in search of a stable career.
Ponies who traveled and did not met the terms and conditions society demanded were called several different names: tramps, hoboes, vagabonds, nomads, wanderers. Oh, and scum.
Society, as it often is, was wrong about that.
~
The Earth pony stallion trudged on through the desert night, matching hoofbeats to the rhythm of the cricket’s chirps. Cacti and tumbleweeds were his only companions, and he welcomed their presence. Traveling from Appleloosa to the boomtowns was no easy feat. His back ached, about fifty pounds of gear and supplies weighing him down. Nevertheless, he could see the smoke from cooking fires in the distance, and he pressed on.
The stallion had always known that this would be his fate. His life had been fairly normal, though his childhood was harsh, raised in a tiny cabin in the woods with an abusive father and a strange, distant brother. Whereas some ponies may have continued the cycle of poverty and violence he survived, this stallion vowed never to fall into such traps.
He earned his cutiemark, graduated school, learned several trades, had brews with his buds, dated a little, and buried his parents. Things went according to life’s stereotypical plans… other than the lack of a mare waiting for him back home, of course, but that is another story for another time.
Through it all, he found himself reckless, itching for something else.
Earth pony he was, he gravitated towards nature, towards the sun and the stars, the moon and the rain, rivers and mountains, oceans and deserts. He felt most at peace during travel, exploring new places, meeting new ponies, making memories of things both big and small. Sure, he still needed bits, but they were not his aim or goal. Even so, he didn’t shy away from work, and took various odd jobs throughout his youth.
However, he found himself bucking the system, and yearned to be his own master.
So, when he came of age and skill, the stallion opened his own business. And, Celestia, was it a grand ol’ adventure! Bowing to nopony, counting bits by hoof, proudly closing the doors to his enterprise himself when quitting time came… the stallion would never work for a master again if he could help it.
Still, after a few months, he felt the itch, the need to pack up and move, to sell his belongings and follow the road as long as it went. He ached to chase the sun, to pursue it into its void below the horizon and greet it. He wanted to lasso the moon or, at the least, play with it under the stars.
He grew restless as life began to fall into a predictable pattern and he fell asleep at the wheel, carriage on autopilot, more and more. Entire days would pass, and he would struggle to vaguely remember any of them.
Then, he walked into his business one morning to find that the register had been forced, all but a few bits stolen away in the night. In spite of the rage he expected from himself, the stallion felt a strange sort of peace. He felt like the camel whose back is broken under the weight of the final straw: pained, but relieved.
He left the very same evening.
Recounting the circumstances of his journey, the grizzled stallion smiled to himself. That had been almost seven years ago, and during that time, he had been to all corners of Equestria and met ponies of all statures and varieties. He had slept in dumpsters and gotten drunk with Canterlot elites. He had learned how to fix carriages, deliver mail, cook and bake all sorts of delicacies, provide security, build houses, and all sorts of other trades along his journey, taking whatever temporary work he could find to fill his belly and get him back on the road.
Now, he was heading out in the desert plains, towards a small, unnamed boomtown under Celestia’s scorching sun. Oil and gold had already created their own cities, far north of here. Silver was whispered to be hidden in these parts, and he was hoping to jump on a mining claim as soon as he found a hotel room and a cold glass of whiskey.
As temperatures dipped into their lowest lows, the fiery heat of the desert matched by the vengeful chill of its night, the stallion continued forward, urged by the smell of cooking fires and the thought of whiskey on his lips.
~
Stumbling over his aching hooves, the stallion sighed with relief as he arrived. He had made it through the desert plains intact, starving the buzzards of an easy meal. Such was always an occasion to rejoice and thank the Most High.
He took in the tiny settlement. From the looks of it, he guessed less than fifty ponies called this town home. There was no welcoming sign, no declaration of a name, just an Equestrian flag stuck in the middle of the sand, an epicenter in a circle of buildings.
Trotting as he went, the stallion squinted through the wind and saw that, at the very least, the buildings had been christened by some painter-pony. There was a general store, a hotel—he sighed with relief—and a saloon—his heart skipped a beat with joy—among a few others.
Called by the laughter of ponies within, and a thirst for liquor, he sauntered through the doors of the bar.
In a corner, a few stallion pegasi were playing a hand of poker, sheathed knives tied around their flanks in a dare to the others to cheat. A rambunctious-looking pink Earth pony mare hammered out a happy tune on the piano, looking way too optimistic and light-hearted for such a place. Two unicorn stallions sat in another corner, eying the newcomer with suspicion. The outsider could see lone-star badges pinned to their saddlebags on the table, and decided that, even if they were fake, he wasn’t going to take his chances.
Exhausted, he trudged over to the bar and pulled up two stools, one for himself and the other for his saddlebags.
A beautiful, yellow Earth pony mare with a long, wavy red mane was cleaning a glass behind the bar. She walked over to him, red-orange eyes warm with welcome and a smile across her face.
“Well, howdy there, stranger! Good ta see a new face ‘round these parts.”
The stallion chuckled. “In ma case, good ta see a face at all. I’ve been out on dat there trail from Appleloosa fo' 'bout damn near four hours. But I’m glad youze folks are still open.”
She smiled at the appreciation. “Yup, you’ve come ta the right place! Finest draughts in all the sands, ya found yer oasis! Let me go git ma partner, though, ta help ya. Ah’ve got a lot o' cleanin’ ta do, if ya don’t mind, stranger.”
He had waited four hours already. He could wait a few more minutes for a drink. The grizzled stallion smiled softly and nodded.
She gave him a final grin, winking, and headed through a door behind the bar. “Honey! We’ve got company!” he heard her call out into the dark.
A tall, orange Earth pony mare with a short, red and pink mane, one of her ears missing a triangle of flesh and pierced with a golden hoop, entered through the door, short bobtail swishing behind her. Her cutiemark was unique as could be, a purple shield shining with a red apple slice in its center.
The traveler had never seen a cutiemark like that before, and knew that its bearer must be very special.
This bartender, in contrast to the other mare, did not look as happy to see a customer, muttering to herself, “Dammit, Apple Bloom, I was just finishin’ up a letter and—“
The mare’s eyes met the stallion’s, emeralds crashing into onyx. She realized, as the laws of physics, space, and time began to slow, that she had seen this stallion before, on a night she had never been able to forget.
In that same suspension of Nature, her customer found a thousand points of light within his mental library, as many memories as there were stars in the sky, and he located one from a dark night almost seven years ago.
“… Turner?”
She walked hazily over to her bar, not sure if she was awake and alive, or dreaming of days long past, or perhaps dead and gone to an alternate universe.
“Turner… is dat youze?”
“Kid.” He took a deep breath. “Kid, youze remember me?”
She smiled. “How could I have forgotten somepony like youze?”
Turner remembered a little orange filly, scared and sniffling, lying on the ground of a cruel Manehatten street, her tail halved and her mane nearly whacked off by a gang of delinquent punks who needed an outlet for their evil.
He remembered the wonder and joy in her eyes at her new manecut, that foal forever sticking out in his mind as his favorite customer of all time during his barber days.
He remembered the promise she had made to him, and recalled how his mind would sometimes drift to that day, wondering what had become of that little filly and if she had kept her vow.
Now, Turner didn’t need to wonder any longer.
“Kid… did youze… did youze keep youze promise?”
Smiling, a little bit of pain and regret behind her countenance, she said, “As best as I could, sir.”
Turner nodded, smiling as he exhaled. “Good kid.”
“Now,” the barpony began, reaching for a glass beneath the counter, “what are youze doin’ here?”
“Followin’ the tumbleweeds, just like everypony else. I hear there’s silver in these lands heeya.”
“Heh heh, well, youze'd best be gittin’ on dat as soon as youze can, Turner. Mo' ponies are expected ta be headin’ out heeya soon ta get a piece o’ dat pie,” she remarked, laughing.
“Heh, heh. Youze is right.” The stallion added, “Oh, where are ma manners? What’s youze name, lil’ lady?”
She smiled. “Babs Seed.”
“Babs Seed, eh? Well, I’d always wondered how things had turned out fo' youze. Youze seem ta be doin’ good. Dis is a grand ol’ place,” Turner observed, stretching out a hoof and marveling upon the bar, at its sturdy structure, its decorations—paintings of nature and metallic tools and horseshoes hanging on the walls—and its well-stocked wall of liquors and labels.
“An',” he began, giving Babs Seed a sly look, “dat’s youze mare, ain’t she?” He motioned his muzzle towards the door behind the bar.
Babs Seed blushed and dug one of her forehooves into the floorboards. After all these years, she still felt shy about matters of the heart. Some things never change.
“Yes,” Babs Seed said. “Yes, she is.”
Turner chuckled in delight. “Good kid. Youze did well. Treat ‘er right… bloom ta youze seed, she is.”
She giggled. “I've never thought o' it dat way.”
“Well, sometimes, we jus' need somepony else ta point things out fo’ us. Ta untangle our roots, youze know?”
Eyes shining, Babs Seed answered, “Yes, yes I do.”
The wise and weathered stallion leaned back in his stool, thousands of life lessons, anecdotes, observations and truths tucked in his saddlebags. He had been to places Babs Seed could never imagine, huddled around campfires with ancient ones, counting the stars and asking them for meaning. There was so much lost time to compensate for, so many stories he wanted to share, and now that Fate had crossed their paths once more, he would seize upon every opportunity he had to speak with her.
For now, though, he wanted a drink.
Remembering her responsibilities, Babs Seed laughed and said, “Now, ma favorite customer, what can I get youze?”
“A glass o' Applejack Daniel’s, m'lady. On the rocks.”
“Comin’ right up.”
Turner leaned over to his saddlebags, searching for one of his stash-cans. He retrieved a few bits from one, and sat the coins on the counter.
“Youze know, kid, who youze always reminded me o'?” he asked, watching her twist the cork out of a new bottle.
“Who’s dat?”
“My daughter. The foal I’ve never met.”
Silence.
Their eyes found one another, and knew.
Babs Seed set down a glass of fine, cold whiskey, only the finest for the savior of her youth, but shook her head at the bits, gently pushing them away.
“For you, this is on the house.”