//------------------------------//
// Chapter One: Calendula 
// Story: On The Horizon 
// by Normal 
//------------------------------//

	      I frown, shifting through the various jars and vials on the shelf. Eyes brightening slightly, I pull out a particular amber brown glass jar  to hold up to the light of the flickering flame, only to have put it back next to several other similar jar as it proves like all others not to be the one I seek. I let out an annoyed whinny as I just face the shelf of jars that had all been searched through.  None of them carried that particular yellow flower for which I was looking.



Sliding the door to the cabinet closed, I only pausing to make sure it latched with a click, before I leave the confines of the crammed, albeit large, closet used to store all of our herbs and finished products. One side of the closet was just a shelf featuring various small tools we used to prepare the herbs.  The shelf was the reason why I had to somewhat crouch in here; at any given moment we could have all rows up to the ceiling completely filled. At the moment,though, only one row was filled. It had been a long summer, filled with extreme heat. Many herbs were made difficult to obtain as such. Calendula would just happen to be one such herb that was completely out of stock.  I blew out the lantern and backed out.



Closing the door behind me to our livelihoods’ stores, I slipped the rune paper over the edge making sure to hold it down long enough so as to give it the time needed to not just seal the door away, but whisk it away too.  Though it cost a pretty penny, there was no more reliable way to ensure something was safe as to not have it be there at all. Of course they worked best when not as old as I and pre-owned. Minor details.



With the wall smooth as any other and the space between rooms successfully nonexistent, I walked softly to the front door. Outside the door, a soft glow was growing as the sun raised over its own threshold and greeted the day with a muted hello. Should my luck be good, leaving this early, when vendors are just setting up, would prevent them from being sold out completely. That is if anyone had any in stock. Many people, even those not skilled in apothecary occasionally, would use it to keep down infections if a wound is older or to slow the bleeding in that of a fresh wound. This made it all the more difficult for those knowledgeable about herbs to get a hold of them. First a long and hard winter, the snows lasting late into the sowing months, and now that hasty farmers try to wean their plants into growth before it is too late, a heat wave from the depths of Tartarus hits hard. When I have gone out in the noon sun I have ended up bringing back to our apothecary those with heat sickness because of how it has been.



My hooves raised up plumes of dust as I plod along the yet empty street way. In no hurry I watch as the particulars or dirt dance slowly back down through the windless air to meet again with the ground from which it came. Just a small rustle of my outer flight feathers and the dust particles, so similar in hue as they shined in the light, would simply disperse. I loved the peace of these times; the hours when you might and often would be the only one on the street. It actually gave you time you wouldn't normally have to stop and enjoy the small things; the things that might go unnoticed during the scurry of the day. To enjoy the spread of one’s wings without worry about bumping into ground bound unicorns or earth ponies.



With the wooden clank of wood against wood, I looked up. Already shutters were opening for the day as ponies crawled wearily from their warm sheets to drag themselves into wakefulness. If I dilly dallied anymore, I would risk other people getting to the market first and with our stores of calendula completely depleted, I had to stop my sightseeing and get moving.

The streets remained quiet save for the passive trot of my bare hooves and the quiet murmurs of breakfasts cooking from homes that I passed. As I round the first street corner another sound was added to that, that of wares being set up and the beginnings of haggling. It pays to live so close to the common market place of a major town. The scent of cinnamon sticks and fresh bread wafted through the air and into my nostrils with a deep inhale. Of course in addition to the wooden stall fronts there were a handful of shops that had permanent residency there. The busiest and most popular of these would be the bakery, with fresh pecan rolls, drenched in sweet honey and sprinkled with cinnamon or the  fresh breads baked with currants and glazed gently with a sugary mixture. It was typically a place for indulgence but they did have a hearty amount of the simple things such as wheat or rye bread.



However, as much as my stomach wanted me to stray towards the aromatic building, I firmed my will and headed to the opposite side of the circular court like area. That area was empty yet save for a few pigeons and my sought after stall. I increased my pace. From where I was at I could see, hanging from the rafters of the stall, a few heads of yellow. I was in luck it would appear and looking around I couldn't see anyone heading this way either.


I slowed down as I neared the wooden form and coming to a stop in front I reached up to finger the petals with the tips of my wings. Still fresh, it bruised slightly underneath my touch.  The leaves looked just a little wilted as they drooped down almost touching the vibrant petals. Some of the flowers sported petals that almost matched the orange of my wings I noticed. I acknowledged the stall owner watching me as he prepared a strand of lavender to hang up next to the other strands with simple grey glow. I turned back my attention to the calendula, pretending I was appraising their quality though I knew darn well that I was going to be buying these few flowers while I could. I tugged at the string that was holding their stems captive and put the liberated plants down on the counter in front of the merchant’s weathered grey hooves. Just four small bundles but it’s what I could get. And if we were able to use it sparingly it could last until this heat passes over. His grizzled muzzle looks up at me, grey eyes, searching my yellow eyes.



“Four bits, missy.” He grunted after a few seconds.



I kept my wing over my coin bag not moving to open it and withdraw any coins. I smiled as he thought that as a mare I wouldn’t know how to hold my own in haggling.



“How about one bit and a half”



I knew what these flowers were worth and I knew what I was going to pay. Now that wouldn’t be one bit and a half but it is better to go low. And wait for it…



“ Three bits.”



“Two.”



“Two bits and a half.”



I withdraw the coins from my bag to show my approval with the price and set down the rough copper bits down next to the plants and swept my orange feathers over the plants being careful not to break the flesh over the stem and leaves. It would be wasteful for the oil to dry up like that. I didn’t wait around for the old man to scoop up his newly gained coinage as I turned heel and with more will this time headed straight across the market place without hesitating at the scent of freshly baked rye bread. By the time I would get back to the house and apothecary Aunt Heart would have started cooking breakfast already and it will be waiting warm in a bowl at our scarred up kitchen table. I brush a strand of pale peach mane out of my eyes as I trot down the lane. I was in no hurry this time, but the breeze of the morning, not yet filled with the scent of sweaty bodies and the contents of someone’s bladder, was like heaven in my face. I make it back to our store much quicker this time, but am slowed to a halt as an unusual sight greets me. Guards, in their leather amour and wooden clubs stand outside of the doorway. The door swings slightly in the morning breeze. The two guards stare straight ahead, seemingly at nothing and neither has acknowledge my presence yet.  The insignia of the Grey King, I see, is etched in the leather and painted bright with red. These are not the typical guards that patrol our streets for any two bit crook, these, though trying not to look it, are the King’s stallions and not to be trifled with. I shiver in the neighbor’s door way that I have paused within glancing up to the second floor windows of where I have lived with my aunt for whole life. I see forms moving through the open shutters but not well enough to tell what’s going on.



Something nudges my leg and I look down to see a dark mutt of some sorts covered in street muck grinning up at me. I give it a gentle shove off and it just leans in farther. I look down again. The dog’s coat, though messy, is free of mats which suggests to me it is not a simple street dog looking for food. Blue eyes meet mine and I look back up. Those are not a dog’s eyes and I feel like I’ve seen that of a ghost’s, if spirits still maintained eyes. One of the guards looks over at me curiously and trying to appear casual I lean down and give a scratch behind the ears. The eyes follow me with a solemnness that doesn’t match the doggy smile on his lips with the pink tongue lolling out.



I jolt though out of my study of this strange creature when a crash comes from my home and three more guards exit. But it is not the burly stallions with their rough manner that my eyes focus on. It is the person in between them with a scratchy burlap sack covering the face that I focus on, hooves tied with rawhides behind her back. Even with the face covered I would know the pelt of the one that raised me anywhere. I shove the dog away for real this time but he grasps ahold of my leg, digging in deep with surprisingly sharp canines. I struggle with the dog as the guards walk by, but the more I struggle, the tighter the grip is on my leg. I try to kick out at his prone belly but he just shifts away and my kick only serves to bruise my fore hoof against a stray rock in the road. The guards are heading opposite the marketplace and I hear the hoof beats before I see their back up. One guard, dressed richly as they all reek of, was apparently waiting just out of sight with six more stallions. These are fearsome beasts, the ponies of the Kings men and I try once more to bolt though I remember how the stallions of guards are trained to strike out with sharpened hooves at anyone who might get in their path.



Unceremoniously my aunt is slung across the back of one of these brutes like she is nothing more than a bag of potatoes. Her hooves are untied briefly only to be retied in front of her, around the horn of a saddle I had previously not fully noticed. I notice as her head rolls in my direction a stain forming near where her temple is.