//------------------------------// // The Letter // Story: The Kind Heart and the Liar // by xara //------------------------------// Your muscles ached a bit as the last portion of your long walk ended and the campsite you'd be using came into view. Your packs had grown heavy; you didn't want to admit it at first, but skipping the second campground probably hadn't been the best idea. Still, you wanted to see this place sooner rather than later, and your companion hadn't objected to the change of plan. She walked alongside you, similarly laden with supplies, and was apparently just as grateful to have arrived as you were. The familiar surge of magic grew in your horn and the buckles and clasps securing the packs atop you opened and slipped aside, allowing you to gently drop your burden on the ground. Your friend stood still as you turned towards her, letting you repeat the action so she didn't have to fuss with her packs. You smiled at her, but she looked away. Okay. You hoped the scenery would do some good during the few days you'd be staying. Out from your pack came a tent, roomy enough for two ponies to share comfortably. You levitated it towards a likely patch of ground - clear of stones, you hoped - and unfolded the contraption. Metal poles joined together to form a sturdy backbone over which the canvas draped. Long stakes accepted the pounding of your hoof as they sank into the ground, the ropes connected to them would keep the tent from falling over from the wind that blows up here. That task done, your friend came closer, carrying your two sleeping bags which she tossed through the open flap of the tent. You stood there together for a moment; you'd caught a glimpse of the rainbows that gleamed nearby. It reminded you of Dash, though there were far more trails in that place than she normally leaves behind, and you couldn't help but smile again. The sun was going down, but you knew there was still a good hour or so left of useful daylight. "Want to gather firewood?" you asked her. "I'll take the pails and get some water first, then come help you." She nodded. She headed towards the nearby forest while you rummaged through your packs to find the water pails you'd brought. There they were. Horn glowing once more, you brought both pails with you as you approached the river. The water rushed quite swiftly here. All the runoff from the nearby mountains gathered into one lane here - it would split a number of times not far from this point before cascading over several steep cliffs. All the water spray that filled the air around the cliffs reflected the sunlight, which caused all the rainbows. Winsome Falls was indeed quite a lovely place; you were glad to have come. You approached a small tree that sat beside the river, intending to dip the buckets from the cool shade it provided. But your eyes fell on a small object that lay there. It looked like a small traveler's pack. Curious, you dropped the pails and moved for a closer look. It was a traveler's pack. Not big enough for a pony with lots of things to carry (like the two of you had brought), but too big to count as something a pony would bring around town for some light shopping. The cover flap had been weighted down with a rock. You kicked that aside with your hoof, then nudged the flap open, wondering what somepony had left behind. Looked like... paper? Several sheets, wrapped in protective covering and shoved inside the pack. You bent down and bit the edge, pulling the sheets out of the pack. Something heavier moved inside the pack. Focusing, you upended the bag, and an object fell from it, clinking as it hit the rock. A common wrench, with soft coating over the mouth-grip. How odd. You left the wrench and pack lying there, but brought the wad of papers over to your campsite. You spared a look at the nearby forest, but didn't see your companion. Well, she wouldn't mind if I took a moment to look, you thought. If anything could explain why the pack, papers and wrench had been left under the tree, the papers would probably say why. You pulled them out from the protective sheeting. A paperclip kept the top left corner of the bunch secured. It looked like a letter, though it wasn't addressed to anypony. Sitting your flank down on one of the logs ringing the fire pit, you began to read. ~ ~ ~ Don't stop. I beg you, keep reading this letter and what I have to say in its entirety before you leave it. I couldn't ask anypony to take it, for reasons that will become clear, but I'm hoping that the magic means that this will work. I am a liar, a thief, and a wanderer. Since my birth I have been... cursed, I suppose you would call it. It is no physical deformity, nor lack of mental prowess - I am average in both, I suppose, for a pony my age. No, it is that I AM A LIAR. The quintessential one. Before you throw these papers away in disgust, let me explain. It is not by choice. Whether I was truly cursed by some being, or born this way, or perhaps I unknowingly channel some foul magic every moment of my life - nopony believes a single word I utter. I could stand in the middle of town on a bright, lovely day and say it is so, and you, along with everypony around me, would shake your heads, roll your eyes, or even grow angry at the stupidity you thought I brought forth. Ask me if I am hungry - I say yes - you walk away believing I said no. You would not believe my name if you heard it, my hopes if I spoke them, my work if I claimed to do it, or any meaning I gave any sentence whatsoever. Ah, but what if I said no when I meant yes, you think? It still will not work, and I have tried. Say no to mean yes, they think I mean no. Say yes trying to mean no in order to really mean yes... well, you can see it gets insufferably complex from there on out - my point is, this curse won't be tricked. Whatever I truly wish to say is what is never believed. I cannot point at a board with yes/no tagged to it. I cannot write my answers, or nod my head, or blink my eyes once for yes and twice for no. All this I have done, and more. Do you know the phrase "actions speak louder than words"? Well, there is my redeeming feature. I can laugh, cry, and blush to show emotion. I can point at an object, or gallop, or kick open a door. You can't misinterpret some things that a pony does when you're not asking for a reply. I certainly didn't, not in all the towns they drove me from with rocks and sharp words. I figured out something was wrong not long after I first began speaking. I suppose I was fine as a very young foal; my cries and laughs were appropriately tended to; at least my parents had that much time to be happy with their new son. But words... I would call for food and be ignored. Ask a question and receive a shocked look; perhaps a swat on the flank. I tried to tell my mother one night that I loved her - I cannot convey the hurt that filled her expression when the sound of my talking ended. I do not always know what the words are that people hear coming from me. A kind thank you would be met with rage; a cry for help would be met with laughter. I didn't try telling my parents that I loved them again, after that. I started school, already unquestionably different from the other colts and fillies. Everything I said was met wrongfully, and I was a quick study. I kept quiet as much as possible, suffering ridicule and chastisement whenever I was called upon to give an answer. The teacher met with me and my parents often, always with the accusation that I was 'acting out' in class. I would protest, only to end up doubling my punishment. I stayed awake late at night to study. Books did not lie to me. The hours of class became a torment to bear, but my solitude was relief. I learned to read, devouring page by page until the thickest and oldest novels felt like old friends. I taught myself to write and to draw. I became fascinated with books about machinery; gears and wheels and pulleys and intricate mechanisms. I would visit the shops, the farms, the workhouses to see what they used. I lay in bed, dreaming up new ways to combine them, scratching out designs onto paper. I remember the day I got my cutie mark. We were having a science fair, you see - all the colts and fillies were to display projects to the class and to our parents. I worked for weeks to create a miniature version of something I had come up with in my dreams and on my paper. A latticed tower; tiny ropes and pulleys; a hoof-crank to spin a set of gears. At the bottom was a bit of metal. It was a drill, I knew from my reading, and though I used a crank, I imagined that the real version would use a coal furnace to heat water and spin the device. If the whole thing was able to be lifted onto wheels, why, I pictured how easy it would be for ponies to drill deep into the earth to find coal rather than excavate huge mines in the mere hopes of discovering it. I finished it two nights before the faire, twisting the last bolt into place with my little pony's wrench. I felt such a joy when it was done; I felt a tingling and ran to a mirror. I'd earned my mark - a small wrench to match the talent I'd displayed. It didn't matter. The next day, I brought my project to school. Some of the older children caught up to me that morning before the bell rung. They teased, they tormented, they laughed. One of them kicked me - I went flying to the ground and so did my project. I begged them not to continue, but they trampled it. I was left behind in the dirt. I told the teacher what had happened. She grew angry and suspended me for the day. The day of the faire, I had nothing to show. My parents had come. There was nothing but disappointment. I became depressed. I barely ate, spent all my time in my room, usually sleeping. I burned all my papers and left the books on the shelves to rot. I no longer answered anything in school; I accepted retribution and torment from my fellow students without lifting a hoof or raising my voice in protest. After another meeting with the teacher, my parents pulled me from the school. I don't think they knew what to do with me anymore. I could have tried to do some work, but how could I explain to a boss that I understood what he wanted? He would have called me a liar. Everyone called me a liar. Even Celestia herself would call me a liar. How can you explain a problem to someone if they will never believe you have one? So I solved the problem for my parents in my own fashion. I ran away. Took my wrench, some food, and a few other things. Didn't leave a note. It would've been misunderstood. I hope it brought them some peace. Maybe they had another child, one without my curse, and they forgot about me and still live happily. I like to think that, sometimes. I headed for the open fields and the deep forests where ponies did not stay. I became quite the skilled forager; I had taken a few books and used them to identify what plants and berries were safe and which were not. The books didn't lie to me, but I didn't always get them right. Spent a few nights now and then so sick I could hardly move. I became a thief, too, I'm sad to admit. A pony can only stomach so many berries in a month. I sneaked onto farms and tore carrots from the ground. I kicked the trees of apple orchards to take their juicy fruit. It caught up with me now and again; angry farmers and village folk confronting me, beating me within an inch of my life, taking all my possessions. I still miss my book of berry identification. Had it taken somewhere outside Manehattan. And that's how I spent the intervening years. I didn't stay long in any place, and I never went into the real cities. I tried to see a few times if the ponies from far out lands were not affected the same, but it always failed. Eventually, I swore not to speak or respond at all. Let ponies think I was some dumb, mute stallion. That worked better than before; some took pity and shared a meal or a warm hearth. But I grew tired; more tired than you could imagine. I was not made to wander this earth forever. I longed for company and treasured even the words of those who took me for a homeless idiot for a night. With just a tilt of your head, no nods, no words, you'd be surprised how somepony can open up and speak to you. I did not want to be alone but I was invariably driven away from every community by those who sought to harm me or viewed me as a bad omen. I reached Ponyville eventually. It's a small but decent place, the kind I would gravitate to all over Equestria. There's a small brook not far from the forest's edge that displays an earthly beauty that wrenched at my heart. The sorrows of years of travel caught up to me, and I let my traveler's pack slip to the ground. I wept, long and hard and intense, shaking with the terribleness of it all. That's when I heard her voice for the first time. How can I describe it? It was soft, but full - not a stage voice, but the low intensity of somepony caught in the pleasure of the moment, knowing that only friends listened. The words meant nothing to me, it sounded like a foreign language, I was too caught up in the notes that flew forth. I saw her crest the hill and the body attached to the voice appeared. Her eyes were closed; her mouth moved in her singing. A pale, golden coat covered her, over which light, pinkish hair trailed in a long mane and tail. She floated about a foot off the ground, pegasus wings flapping. A dozen assorted birds, squirrels, and rabbits flew, walked, or hopped beside her. Her eyes opened as she followed the path. She saw me, curled up and miserable on the opposing bank of the stream. "Oh!" she cried out, and her wings folded up, dropping her onto her hooves.