//------------------------------// // Chapter XVIII // Story: Blank Slate // by Integral Archer //------------------------------// The door slammed shut behind them. As they walked away, Littlepip could see the lingering eyes following them through the glass of the window until they were out of sight. Even when they were separated by solid concrete, she felt their sight penetrating through it, and she imagined that if she were to walk back, she would see them still staring, their eyes fixed on her, their vision like a laser locking onto its target. She wondered what the target was that was inside of her. Littlepip stopped when she felt that the distance were sufficient. The overmare continued to walk; Littlepip stayed stone still. The overmare had gone a few feet before she noticed she wasn’t being followed. She turned and looked at Littlepip; the latter refused to budge. A smile came to the overmare’s face, as if she understood the intention of such an obstinate halt and a refusal to go forward on her command. The overmare walked back. “Littlepip, if you need to talk to somepony, Doctor Shrink has extended her office hours for the next week, and—” “You’re a liar.” “Excuse me?” “When you’re not wrapped up in your evasions, you’re lying to protect them. Copper Chromite was always suspicious of you. Personally, I never understood why. You see, Ms. Overmare, I have an intrinsic trust of my fellow ponies. I believe that ponies are naturally good-natured. I thought he were overly cynical. But I now see exactly what he was talking about. You’re lying.” “About what exactly, Ms. Littlepip?” “I’m not sure. Maybe about him being dead. Maybe about how he died. You lied to all of them about something. I know you’re lying, just as he knew that you were lying about his grandfather. Perhaps he was not right about what exactly you were lying about. But he knew you were indeed lying about something. Just as I know you’re lying right now.” The overmare furrowed her brow and frowned. If one happened to be walking by at that moment, he would not have recognized her. Stable 2 knew the overmare as a pony that smiled; and, if she was not smiling, she always had the hint of a smile that lingered. They never saw her with any other emotion but that of a meaningless, unfounded gayety. “You say that I’m a liar?” the overmare said, her voice deep, quiet, and damning. “Well, that’s quite a serious claim. A very serious claim indeed. If I lied to you, that would be grounds for immediate termination from my position, as per Stable-Tec’s overmare’s constitution. I don’t think you fully appreciate the consequences of what you’re saying. You say I lied to the inhabitants of Stable 2? I assume you have proof of this, yes?” “I’m not trying to impeach you,” said Littlepip. “I don’t care what you think, what they think, what anypony thinks. I just wanted to let you know that I know you’re lying; that’s all. You can walk around all you want; you can accept the compliments and praises that are thrown at you; but I’ll be contented with certainty, because I’ll look at you and know that everything you ever get from them is undeserved.” “In the absence of proof, I highly suggest you keep your ideas to yourself, Ms. Littlepip. If something is true, if something is demonstrable, then, by all means, say it. Scream it at the top of your lungs. No matter who is being denounced, I will personally see to it that she’s brought to justice. Even if it’s I. But it would be irresponsible, dishonest, immoral of me to act in the absence of proof, condemn a pony just because of somepony else’s hunch. You know that I don’t tolerate wrongdoers; but you also know that I have even less tolerance for slanderers.” “Fair enough,” said Littlepip. “But I’m still unclear of the details. I’ve been asleep this entire morning.” The overmare chuckled. “I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that, because that’s grounds for a formal censure. But with everything that’s happened, I’ll be a bit more lenient for the next little while. Ms. Littlepip, I made an announcement to the stable this morning: Copper Chromite killed himself in his studio last night. That is all I said. Now you know everything.” “How exactly did he do it, kill himself?” said Littlepip. “Can we see the body?” The overmare scowled. “In a time of grieving, you ask such dark questions! Oh, don’t mistake me; I’m not chastising you. I encourage you to speak openly to me, of course, just as if I were Doctor Shrink. If you need to say anything, I will always listen, and it is always confidential. I’m just telling you: You should keep such thoughts to yourself. Not all will be as willing to hear your effusions as well as I do. Some will be offended. Especially the departed’s family—Celestia bless them.” Littlepip smirked. “I’m satisfied. Thank you, Ms. Overmare,” she said. The overmare smiled. “I’m glad I could be of help to you.” Littlepip shook her head. “No, not in the way you think. You didn’t help me consciously. No, see, what you just said is another piece of evidence in my mind with which I convict you.” “What exactly did I say?” “That’s just it: you said nothing. Absolutely nothing. What did Copper Chromite say to me yesterday? That you’re all questions, questions, demands, demands, evasions, evasions? He liked that word, evasion. I never saw an example. I knew what it meant, but I could not think of a single instance of you—or anypony, for that matter—using it. But what you just said: it just screams to me evasion. Because it screams nothing. Don’t interrupt. It’s fine; I don’t hold it against you. I know what you’re going to say, because I know what nothing sounds like. It’s so simple, isn’t it? Defending nothing with nothing. You’ll never run out of arguments.” “May I see your Pip-Buck for a second?” “Sure,” said Littlepip, holding out her foreleg. “Whatever. It’s just a Pip-Buck. Just like any other’s. “So,” she went on, as the overmare twisted the dials, “he told me many things. Things you’d never understand, Ms. Overmare. I think the rest would understand; he’d have to speak more slowly for the slower ones, but I think even the dumbest resident would understand. But you wouldn’t. Oh, I’m not calling you stupid—far from that. I think you’re one of the smartest here. And that’s not flattery. You know exactly what to say when. You have all these ideas, ideas I don’t understand, that I have no desire to understand. You have all these ideas you’re trying to get us to think, and you know how to get us to do what you want. Social engineering, it’s called, right? You engineer ponies in the same manner and with the same prowess as Copper Chromite engineered circuits. That’s a skill I want to learn. Not circuits, but ponies. I wouldn’t use it, of course—I have no desire for power—but I think it would be a useful skill just to have, you know? Like sewing. How long has Stable 2 stood? And you’ve managed to keep it standing for I-don’t-know-how-many-years with what? Posters and announcements through the radio? That’s impressive. But the only thing that puzzles me is how a Copper Chromite hasn’t appeared sooner—hey, what are you doing? You’re going through my personal files!” The overmare said nothing and continued to twist the knobs. “Those are my files!” she screamed. But she did not take her leg away. “What are you looking for?” The overmare said something under her breath and put Littlepip’s leg down. “Oh, nothing, my dear. I’m sorry. I don’t know what I was thinking. But I see you have a lot of recordings of his radio broadcasts. Was Copper Chromite a friend of yours? You certainly sound a lot like him.” Littlepip opened her mouth to speak, but something caught in her throat and slowed the flow of words which had sounded so confident in her head. Her nose tingled. “It’s just that, Ms. Overmare . . . I’m trying to make sense . . . I don’t know what’s going on. . . . I wake up and the things I hear . . . I don’t know why . . . what or how. . . . I’m so confused. . . . I want to find out, but I don’t know. . . . I don’t know. . . . I don’t know. . . .” The overmare put a hoof on Littlepip’s shoulder. “I’m sorry, Littlepip,” she said. Littlepip looked up at her. She felt her chest warm as she saw the overmare’s head, high above hers. Her pitying, sad smile gave her the appearance of a benefactor. Littlepip saw the assurance, and though her legs started to shake and though she started to feel the unbearable weight of her head, though she felt herself sinking lower and lower to the floor in the presence of the overmare, she allowed her body to bow in reverent deference. She felt comforted, swaddled by her presence. “I’m sorry, Ms. Overmare. . . . I’m sorry. . . . I don’t know what got into me. . . . Oh, I spoke to you like that! . . . How could I? . . . You just want to help. . . . I need to be helped. . . . Can you help me? . . . I’m so lost . . . lost. . . . I don’t know what to do or what to think . . . or what to feel . . .” “It’s alright, Littlepip,” came the cool, smooth voice. “Have you ever lost a family member? No? It’s alright. It’ll be okay. It’s going to feel bad, but everything will be alright in the end. Don’t fight it. It’s useless to fight it. We’re all sad, and the worst thing we can do is pretend we’re not.” Littlepip sniffed. “Can you help me?” “Of course I can. It’s my job to help you. But to help you, you have to understand something very important.” “What?” “I’ll tell you. You need to hear me. You might not understand immediately, but try. The sooner you do, the sooner I can help you, alright?” “I . . . I guess so,” said Littlepip, wiping and rubbing her eyes with a forehoof. “What is it?” “Stable 2 is going to go through a grieving process. We’ve lost one of the most productive of our family—and you see, we are a family, Littlepip. We’re all interconnected. We all depend on one another. And I will be grieving the most; truly, I will be. As a mother myself, it pains me. But I say the word mother in its literal meaning. And we must not be too literal. We can extend its definition. Words have no fixed meaning, you know. I’m a mother in two senses: in the old-fashioned, traditional sense, in the sense that I have a biological son; and in the broader sense, perhaps a more important sense, in the sense that I’m the overmare. An overmare is just another kind of mother, don’t you think? I have to care for all, make sure all are fed, make sure all grow up properly. Do you understand, Littlepip? You call me Ms. Overmare, but you should think of that title just as you think of the word mother. Do you understand?” “I . . . I think so,” stammered Littlepip, looking up at the overmare with pleading eyes. “You want me . . . to think of you as my mother rather than my actual mom?” The overmare gasped. “Good heavens, no! No! I’m saying that you have your biological mother, and then you have me, your overmare. I’m like an additional mother. But I differ in many ways from your biological mother: I don’t breastfeed you; I don’t sing you a bedtime story; I don’t ask you how work was. But I do make sure that you are fed; I do make sure you have a place to sleep; and I do make sure that you have work to do. I differ in specifics from your biological mother, but fundamentally I’m the same thing. Do you understand?” “Yes, I . . . understand.” “And do you know what else a mother does?” “What?” “Does a mother make sure her children follow rules?” “I . . . suppose . . .” “Does a mother discipline her children when they do not follow rules?” “Yes, I . . . suppose so.” “Are you with me so far?” “I . . . think so. Is that . . . everything?” “No. That was the preamble. That was easy to understand. What I’m going to tell you next might be difficult. You may reject it. But I’m trying to help you, Littlepip. I know how frustrating it is to not understand. What I say next will help you understand.” “What is it?” “The thing is,” the overmare went on, “there can be conflicts at times, between the mother and the overmare. It’s very common for them to disagree. This is why it’s so hard to be an overmare; this is why the overmare is discouraged from having children: Because she’s torn between the two. She’s torn between doing what makes her children happy and doing what supports the residents of Stable 2. There are conflicts. If an overmare is also a mother, she feels a duty to care for those under her as her children. But she needs to look at them disinterestedly. Many of my predecessors couldn’t do it. It’s a very difficult position. I look strong, yes? Would you believe me if I told you there were times when I think I weren’t cut out for this position?” Littlepip choked briefly on her saliva and coughed. “I don’t . . . understand . . .” “What I’m saying is,” the overmare continued, “is that the mother in me grieves at the news of Copper Chromite’s death. When I heard the news, the mother in me wanted to go run to my own son and hug him and never let him go. It is an incomprehensible horror to her to think of how his family is feeling, and she’s reactive; she wants to know how it happened, why it happened, so that it will never happen again. She looks at what’s around her and wonders how it could have been different. Maybe if it were different in this way, he would still be with us. I look at a chair, and I convince myself that perhaps had the fabric been a different color, it would have saved him. It sounds ridiculous, because the thinking of a mother is not quite rational at times; but in the moment, it makes the most sense in the world. “That’s how the mother, the old-fashioned mother, in me reacts. Do you want to know what the overmare in me says?” She stepped closer to Littlepip. The overmare’s height was more evident than ever. “What does she say?” whispered Littlepip. “The overmare in me says: serves him right.” Littlepip said nothing. She stared at the overmare. Her nose stopped its tingling. “What?” she said. “He was a good worker; the mother in me praises him for that. But he didn’t know why, or for whom, he was working; the overmare in me damns him for that. He was short, to the point, knew how to communicate his ideas effectively; the mother in me lauds him for being so honest. But he was rude, obnoxious, had his own ideas on the way to conduct things, and dismissed those who disagreed; the overmare in me reproaches him for that. He had an individuality that stuck out, was blatant and forefront: The mother in me is delighted, because she sees that her child is unique—how wonderful that all children are not the same, that I have a reason for looking after my own! The overmare in me also sees he’s unique—and she scowls. How dare that a resident deem himself more worthy than the others! And after I’ve spent my entire life extolling equality, kinship, and fraternity, he has the audacity to say that he’s special! That he’s above that! Do you see now, Littlepip, the conflict I face every day of my life? Do you see why though we’ve lost him in one way, and though that way was tragic, we’ve gained in so many others? This is what sacrifice is. It may hurt us, and we may never understand it or be able to live with it, but that’s our ego trying to muddle our feelings. The ego doesn’t know what’s good for it; it takes, consumes, devours, and holds itself as its only justification. And if we are to get along, if we don’t want to be at each other’s throats, we must quell it whenever we have the opportunity. Isn’t that what I’ve been saying when I’ve spoken of the importance of sacrifice? Sacrifice is the destruction of the ego. Personal opinions aside, none would disagree that Copper Chromite upset harmony, equality, and balance in the stable; and now he’s gone, all that I’ve said would ensure our survival has been restored. Does that not make you view his death as a net gain? Does that not justify it?” Littlepip found her footing again. Her head lifted from the ground on its own accord, without any help from her neck. Her stutter was gone. The cloud in front of her brow lifted. The overmare was slightly higher than her, but Littlepip found it was no effort to look her in the eyes and say: “They’ll remember him. I remember him. And you can’t expect me to forget him.” “I suggest you try very hard, Ms. Littlepip, because I’m starting to see a lot of him in you. It’s a blessing, in a way—and a curse. A curse that’s necessarily contrary to our fundamental tenets. Do you know what our fundamental tenets are? Tell me. You might not see that now, but perhaps if you voice them, you’ll see.” Littlepip pursed her lips. “Have you forgotten?” said the overmare. “You shouldn’t forget. When you forget them, you lose the will to survive. Why, about a month ago, I asked Copper Chromite—may he rest in peace—what they were, and he told me he had forgotten. Coincidence? Maybe. Or maybe it’s linked. I know you’re not like that. What are they? Tell me.” “Solidarity,” Littlepip said through her teeth, “kinship, fraternity, and . . .” “And?” “And . . .” “Say it.” “Sacrifice.” “Very good. See, now that wasn’t so hard, was it? It was nothing to you, but it means so much to me. Come now; why the heavy eyes? Do you not think these virtues are what have enabled us to survive against all odds all these long years?” “No, I think that they have done just that.” The overmare smiled sadly and shook her head. “I don’t understand you, Ms. Littlepip. Is there anything you can think of that is more desirable than surviving?” “Living.” Littlepip turned. No matter how fast she ran, no matter how cold the air felt around her as it whipped past her face, she still felt the overmare’s presence one step behind her. She still felt her touch on her shoulder. It had been as intimate as when Copper Chromite had touched her. She had felt the overmare’s bones as well as she had felt his. Copper Chromite’s bones had felt like tungsten. The overmare’s, like gallium.