//------------------------------// // Incident on Corner Lane // Story: The House on Mayberry Hill // by Alexander //------------------------------// The House on Mayberry Hill Chapter 5: Incident on Corner Lane It was nearing midnight, nearly four days since Palmer Orchid had watched the new curious mare stroll into town in her over-loaded wagon. Since that afternoon and initial meeting, Palmer had only seen the new mare twice in passing while on errands around town. On one such errand, he remembered how he had taken rest in one of the town's taverns. He had just ordered his weekly meal of apples and celery when she walked into the place. Palmer could remember how the entire tavern had gotten deathly quiet as she walked to the bar and ordered a large water. Now for a small town bent mostly on the life of farming and agriculture, seeing a mare of her status was an event to be beheld. On another errand, he had passed her by on one of the streets near the town square. He had exchanged a polite greeting and to his pleasant surprise, she had returned it. Later that day when he was lazing around with his few friends, he had learned that the mare's name was Rose Bloom. When he questioned how they knew, he was met with the response that she was the daughter of a successful farmer near Westerby. Such as it was, the moon was bright in the clear night sky. Palmer looked around his little hut and longed to be back in the fortitude of his home on the side of the windy hill. This new small hut was, given the present circumstances, the best that Palmer Orchid could take. These circumstances that held him hostage to an unfamiliar hill and little hut was simply this; it was nearing birthing season and the laden ewes were preparing to deliver new life. Two days ago, he had herded his flock out to a new pasture and a gentler hill so that the newborns would not have to fight such steepness during their first days of learning to walk. As for the small hut, it was situated on wheels that placed it a good three hooves above the ground and Palmer Orchid had rolled it out with a light of his horn. The small hut was built of weathered wood and it was painted over with a dirty white. There were small holes in the wood but they were relatively nothing and the heat from the fire stayed in nonetheless. The roof of it were crafted metal slabs that stayed in placed with a multitude of nails. The metal had rusted a bit during its years of use but it didn't deter the determined farmer from his chores. Palmer took a look around the interior of the hut before sitting down on a hard lump of bedding. His bed, which was made from tossed about and packed together corn husks, often enough gave the poor shepherd an aching back in the mornings. It was fairly uncomfortable but for a temporary lodging, Palmer dealt with it as he did every year. He laid down on it and took another long look around the interior of the hut. In the corner by the head of his bed was a table. It was laden down with cheese, apples, celery stalks, and slices of bread. Across the single room of the hut in the opposite corner was Palmer's stick hanging from a hook, the light from the fire reflecting from its polished surface. Further down from his stick hung several cast-iron skillets and pans that Palmer used for his daily cooking. The furniture that held the ware above the fire pit were strewn in disorder against the base of the wall. Palmer took a look at the crackling of the fire pit and closed his eyes to sleep. His slumber was soon broken by the distant cries of two newborn lambs. Palmer got up, gave his legs and back a tough stretch before taking down a pot from the wall and choosing its partnered stand. He placed the pot above the fire and fetched a pail of milk. He poured a healthy dose of it into the pot and set it to simmer and warm. Looking into a little cracked mirror that he had hung from the wall by the door, he smoothed out his mane and levitated over his stick. When he was completely ready, he took one final look around to see if he had forgotten anything and deciding that he hadn't, he stepped out into the cool early autumn air. A stiff wind was blowing its way over the face of the hill and the freshly fallen leaves rustled without care. The heavy limbs of the large trees groaned and cried as they were rocked to and fro by the wind. Their sounds sounded a bit like the cries of somepony that was mourning the death of their friend or a member of their family. It was a sad sound and it caused Palmer's heart to waver at them. The stars above Palmer's head shown bright against the clear dark sky. Being a farmer as he was all of his life, Palmer had the innate ability to read the positions of the stars to determine the time. He took a look at them and noted how the great square of Pegasus had swung around in the sky to the west. "Twelve-thirty," Palmer said as he tore his gaze from the sky. He descended down the hill to its base and wandered around to the sound of the cries. When he arrived, he found twin lambs lying in the cool grasses being tended to by their mother. He gave her a pet on the top of her head as he crouched and gave the lambs a look-over. When he found no birth defects, Palmer emitted a light of his horn and the two lambs were lifted into the air. Palmer gave the tired mother a final pet, told her 'Good work', and took the lambs away. Palmer stepped up into his little hut and set the two lambs onto a soft bedding of hay to keep them from the cold. He stoked the fire and removed the pot of simmering milk. He poured a little into a large dish and placed it in front of the two. It would be nowhere near as good or as beneficial as their mother's milk but for that first night, it was the best the two lambs were going to get. When they began to edge closer to the warm milk, Palmer sat back down on his lumpy mattress of corn husks, took an old worn flute from his bag, and began to play. The notes from the old flute rose unhindered into the night and carried down with the wind to the town. If anypony had been out for a midnight stroll, they would have believed the high pitches to be the songs of birds. Then if they had wandered further around, they would have seen the small hut on the hill. Then if they had bothered the time to climb up to it, they would have seen the form of Palmer Orchid sitting on his bed through the small window. But even so, the sharp notes rose and fell in pitch and even if a little muffled by the wind, played out loud across the quiet night. Palmer stopped playing and took a look at the two lambs; they had stopped lapping up the warm milk and were now deep in sleep. Palmer smiled at the first two lambs of the season, set his flute back in his bag, and left his hut. He climbed up to the ridge, whistled for his dogs, and walked along its crest. He whistled for his dogs again and heard the familiar sound of Tinker running as fast as he could. Palmer gave the dog a scratch behind its ears and having seen enough to get his bearings, he descended down to the road. He turned left when he reached it and walked until he came to a fork. He took the right that lead further from the town and went about his way. Off in the distance, he could see a faint light. From where he was, the light looked like some sort of lantern but as he neared, he found it to be a light from a window. He neared closer and curious, he took a look inside. He was met with the sight of a handsome home full of pretty furniture and little paintings. The walls were a light red and the floors were polished oak boards. Palmer looked in through the glass to where he saw a very peculiar scene of two mares. One of the mares to his surprise was Rose. The other mare was old and looked as though she would give out at any moment. From what he could see, Palmer determined that the two were deep in a heated conversation. Deciding against eavesdropping, Palmer removed his muzzle from the old glass of the window and backed away from it. He stood in the brilliant light that poured out from within for a moment before turning away. With thoughts of what he had just seen racing through his mind, he trekked back down the road to where he knew his flock to be. ****** Palmer quickly dispelled all thoughts of the scene when he returned to his flock to find a newborn lamb. He heard no cries from it and with a pang in his heart, he quickly trotted to where its mother was pointlessly nursing and cleaning it. And feeling another pang in his heart. Palmer slowly crouched down close to the sorry mother and ran his hoof along the white wool atop her head. He reached down to the lamb and removed the umbilical cord from around its neck; it was too late to do anything else. He lifted the little lamb into the air, gave the tired sorry ewe a pitying glance, and took her lamb away. Palmer carried the still-born lamb to a grove of underbrush and trees which was slowly thinning out in the onset of autumn. He gently placed the lamb onto the ground and turned away from it. With a single tear, Palmer walked back up the hill to his hut. A curt stiff wind suddenly twisted its way over and around and knocked Palmer off his guard and sent him stumbling forward up the crooked steps. Cursing heavily, Palmer limped up to the door, flung it open, and removed his old rusted spade. With his prize in tow with a light of his horn, Palmer marched back down the hill to the brush. Despite being a farmer and shepherd for all of his life and having seen more than his fair share of death, it still weighed heavy on Palmer's heart whenever one of his sheep died. It weighed even more so when one would die of an accident like this. He stifled a cry and set to work. With a sudden flash from his horn, the rusted spade made a dull hit with the soft ground. With another flash, Palmer brought the spade swinging up through the air over his shoulders and a large collection of earth landed with a soft thud behind him. With another flash, the spade struck the ground again. As the cool autumn night progressed, the glimmer from Palmer Orchid's horn emitted an eerie glow against the black of night. Its faint glow cast a light hue of blue upon the surrounding area and on the overhanging branches. The job of digging the small grave was a long ordeal marked with frequent cursing and near-constant breaks to wipe the sweat away from his brow. Dig after dig and fling after fling, the muscles in Palmer's back and shoulders flexed as he concentrated on his horn and his shovel. Each dig bought a new wave of sweat at which point Palmer would stop and wipe it all away with a quick flick of his hoof. He continued on with his laborious task well into the early morning. A lone bird landed on the branch above his head. When Palmer had finished with his chore, he gave his brow a quick wipe with hoof and whistled lightly as he tossed the spade to the ground. He looked sorrowfully at the poor lamb and placed it into the deep grave. With a gentle light of his horn, Palmer sifted the earth back into the hole; the little lamb peacefully unaware as if he could have been sleeping. When all the earth had been restored, Palmer found a large smooth stone and placed it atop the mound. He cautiously etched in a few last words of grief before turning. Palmer turned a sad eye to the lightening sky and found his stars. "Six-thirty," he said. Palmer picked his shovel from the ground again and with another dim light of his horn, he began his slow trek back up the hill. A warm morning breeze was rolling through as he went, coating the bed of browning grass in a blanket of thin dew. Palmer's hooves brushed the dew away from the blades as he drug himself tiredly up the hill. When Palmer reached his modest hut, he marched up the steps and placed his spade in its place. He roused the two sleeping lambs from their warm cot and set them out with their mother. He blew out the remaining embers of the pit and sat down on his hard lumpy mattress of corn husks. As he lied his head down on the equally hard pillow he remembered; he had forgotten his shepherd's stick on the warming face of the hill. He smiled before instantaneously succumbing to the call of sleep. ****** Palmer Orchid awoke later that morning to the soft cries of another newborn lamb and just as he had done just hours previously, he set a pot of milk to warm. He stifled a hefty yawn as he stepped down from the hut. He gave the morning air a deep breath in as he stretched his aching muscles from his chore hours before. They popped and shifted back into their original positions as he did and he let out a momentary moan of pleasure. He gave his muscles a final flex before starting on his way, Palmer crossed back to his flock and gave a nod to the two that were born the night before. He smiled as they nursed from their mother as he walked by. He walked further on and spotted a brown pole lying in the grass. He quickly trotted over to his stick and picked it up from the ground. Inspecting it, Palmer gave it a thorough cleaning with a quick little light of his horn and with that chore complete, he lifted it into the air and walked round to the soft cries of the newborn. When he arrived to the happy mother, Palmer crouched down close to her and gave her words of praise. He ran a quick inspection along the length of the new lamb before lifting it away into the air and towards the direction of the hut. A gentle wind had begun to blow across the tops of the hills and down to their bases through the earlier morning. The slight rustling of the strewn-about leaves met Palmer's ears as he carried the healthy lamb to the warm cot of hay and grains. He set her down onto it and crossed the single room of his hut to the fire pit and removed the milk. Just as he had done with the two earlier, he poured a bit of it into a bowl and after making sure they would do no harm, he left. Palmer stalked round the ridge of the hill and hearing no cries from any newborns, he whistled for his dogs. Old Tinker came lobbing up from his spot at the bottom and nudged his muzzle into Palmer's elbow, as if in anticipation of some prize. Palmer reached and gave the old pup a quick hard pet atop his head and he whistled again for the other dog. Hearing and seeing no sign of it, Palmer cursed loudly and ran back down the hill to where he jumped over a deep ditch. He looked up and down the road and still saw nothing to indicate the presence of a dog. Turning onto it and with Tinker close at his heels, Palmer set off down the street. After checking near Hilter Mill, Noming Shire, and the streets of Klimmington, Palmer retreated to a back road that cut through a long bough of trees. Palmer set himself down onto it and walked; Tinker following behind at a close position but yet far enough behind that he could do as he wished. The slightest breeze broke the dried leaves from their branches as Palmer made his way. He pricked his ears towards the far end of the road as he heard the unmistakeable sound of the clip-clop of hooves against gravel. He looked and regarded a wagon pulled by a team of mulls and to his ultimate surprise, the mare behind the reins was Rose Bloom. Palmer stopped in his tracks and hesitated; part of him wanted to stay put and try to make conversation with her but another bit of him wanted him to run and hide behind a bush. He stayed. He silently watched as the wagon pulled up and he flagged her down. The wagon crawled to a stop beside him and Rose removed her hat. She gave her loosely-tied mane a brush out of her face and dropped the reins. "What's it you need from me, farmer?" was all she asked. Palmer shifted uncomfortably, blushed, and raised his eyes to look at hers. "Just wanted to say 'hello' is all, ma'am," he replied. "I have seen you around town before, farmer." "Ay ma'am. I've seen you too. You always seem caught up with something." "What I am caught up with or not caught up with is none of your concern, farmer," Rose bluntly said to him. "Ay ma'am, 'tis true. But I was just only saying it because I think it true," Palmer replied, suddenly feeling a little guilty with himself. "Then why say it to me?" "Because honestly ma'am, I couldn't think of anythin' else to say to you." "Farmer . . ." "Yes, ma'am?" "What is your name?" Palmer stumbled about at the unexpected answer and he struggled to find breath. He looked around the road as if in desperate search for an answer. As if the gravel was going to spell out his name for him. He finally looked back up to Rose and opened his mouth to speak. "Palmer. Palmer Orchid is my name," was all he said. "Palmer . . . Orchid . . . " "Ay ma'am. 'Twas the name I got on my day of birth by my pop." Rose looked down from her wagon and leaned forward to bring her face closer to Palmer's. In surprise, Palmer backed away and bumped his rump into the ragged bark of a tree causing him to fall back and curse heavily. Rose laughed cheerfully. "What's it that you do?" she asked as she gave her horn a little light and bought the sulking stallion back to his hooves. "What's it that you do, Mister Palmer Orchid?" she asked again. "Judging your attire, you seem to be very homely stallion." "Well ma'am," Palmer began as he magicked off bits and pieces of brush from his coat. "It's as you say, I am a farmer and I am a very homely stallion. But to be precise to you, I am a simple shepherd. As a matter of fact, my entire family's been shepherds." Rose considered Palmer for a tense moment and his deepening blush before rising back to her bench and taking the reins again. "Very well then, Orchid. It has been nice meeting you but now I must get back home." "Ay ma'am." "I am sorry for not making your acquaintance sooner. I do believe that I owe you three bits. I am not so prideful as to forget a due." "Oh no, ma'am. Don't think much of such a little thing; I'm generously paid enough. You haven't the need to." Rose skeptically looked Palmer up and down with a critical stare before lightening her expression. She smiled. "Alright then, Orchid." "Ay, ma'am." "Oh!" Rose exclaimed from her bench as she was setting to leave. "Could you tell me which road this is? I have only been here but a couple of days and I cannot remember the names of these country roads to save my life." "Ay, ma'am. 'Tis Corner Lane," Palmer replied with a scratch of his mane line. "Corner Lane . . . Thank you, Orchid." "It's not a problem, ma'am." Rose took a final considerable stare at Palmer Orchid before giving the reins a quick snap. The large mulls at the front pulled on the harness and the wagon was back on its way, kicking up a bounty of dust and fallen leaves as it went. Tinker jumped out of the way of it and went back to snapping at the leaves. Palmer watched her leave with a heavy blush on his tanned cheeks. Feeling suddenly awkward, he whistled for his old dog and went back to searching for the younger.