//------------------------------// // Red Ferns and Other Treasures // Story: For Whom We Are Hungry // by Cold in Gardez //------------------------------// The next morning, you strap on your Everfree saddlebags and step out the door. It's a warm day, cloudless, and you already know it will be the hottest day yet of the year by the time the sun sets. Perfect for changelings, in other words. A good day to go hunting. Except. You reach the edge of the forest, only a few hundred yards from your cabin, and come to a stop. Saw Dust is waiting for you. He has his beat-up saddlebags around his withers, and his hooves are set wide and firm, as though he's expecting a fight. “I'm coming with you,” he says. His jaw is clenched, and his ears fold back against his skull. Impossible. You shake your head. “No.” “Yes.” “No.” “Yes.” He stomps a hoof for emphasis. The earthy scent of determination surrounds him. You try reason. “It's dangerous.” “I'm tough! I'll help you!” “You'll get in the way. What do you know about the Everfree?” “I know lots!” He pauses. “It's... got stuff in it.” That is a true statement, but it hardly supports his argument. “No. How did you even know I was going?” “Cinnabar told me this is where you get her plants. She said you're the only pony who goes in there.” “Did she tell you why that is?” That gets him. He grinds his hoof into the dirt, the same gesture as from the market. “She... she said it was dangerous and I shouldn't ask you about it.” And you win. That was easy. “Good. Now, go home.” You trot around him, along the path leading into the forest. After only a few steps, you hear him rushing to catch up. Wonderful. You sigh and turn around. He is waiting right behind you. “I said no.” “I... I don't care!” He draws in a big breath, so deep his chest swells and his eyes bug out and his cheeks bulge before he releases it. “I'll tell! I'll tell everyone if you don't let me come.” It doesn't even faze you, this lie. You can smell his bluff – rotten, like fruit left in the sun. He will never tell another pony your secret. But there is something more there, beneath the deception. Something bittersweet, citrus and sharp. It turns your head, and you blink in surprise. Desperation. He is desperate to come with you. “Why?” you ask. “Why do you want to come? It's not fun in there.” “I just... I want to help you.” “Why?” “Just because.” “That's not an answer,” you say. “I know. I just do, okay? Please?” Sadly, you're low on options. As he already knows, he can simply follow you, regardless of what you say. You seem to be stuck with him. “Fine,” you grumble. You turn back to the path, and let him walk alongside you as you proceed deeper into the Everfree's verdant shadows. “Have you ever been in the Everfree?” He shakes his head. “What about other woods?” He nods. “Yeah, sometimes.” “Well, the Everfree isn't like other woods.” You stop and hold out your leg, blocking the path. “There are monsters in here. Things that would eat you or me in a few bites. You need to listen to everything I say, and do exactly what I tell you. If I tell you to freeze, freeze. If I tell you to run, run. Understand?” The colt gawks at you, and you realize it's probably the most words he's ever heard you say. Eventually he nods, and you both resume your walk down the path. “What are we looking for?” he asks. His voice tastes timid, as though he is starting to understand he should be afraid. Above you both, the trees on either side of the path have closed off the sky. Only fragments of its light break through the canopy to reach the ground now. Everfree blueberries is the correct answer. They are not like regular blueberries, which you can purchase by the quart from the market. They are not even related to regular blueberries, though they share the same leaves and fruits and flowers, and they both grow in swampy, warm parts of the woods. Everfree blueberries contain a powerful sedative in their fruits, and they are delicious. A pony who eats one invariably eats another, and another, until they are gorged on them and cannot help but lie down for a nap against whatever log or tree they found the berries on. The berries themselves are not fatal. The plant's roots, however, which quickly grow into the sleeping pony and begin to feed on them, usually are. You decide not to look for Everfree blueberries on this trip. “Red ferns,” you say. The colt trots alongside you for several yards before answering. “What?” “Red ferns. They're like regular ferns, but red.” “Oh.” Another few steps in silence. “Is that all?” “Their fronds supposedly taste delicious.” You start to slow as the path narrows. Ponies rarely venture this far into the forest – looking back, you cannot even see the sunlit glade where you met Saw Dust. Roots churn the dirt beneath your hooves, and you have to step carefully over them. “Cinnabar sells them to restaurants in Canterlot for a small fortune.” “Why don't you sell them in Canterlot?” Saw Dust bounces up onto a boulder that lies across the path. The rock is slick with water, though it hasn't rained in days. “I don't like Canterlot,” you say. It's a mild version of the truth. The path officially ends a few hundred yards later when you reach a small stream. On the far bank is only more forest, unbroken and shadowed. The stream is wide enough that sunlight pierces the gaps in the canopy overhead, and you stop with Saw Dust in one of its rays. “Do you see this stream?” you ask. You wait for him to nod before you continue. “If anything goes wrong, run back here. If you can get to this side of the water, you're safe.” You pause. “Probably. Keep running back to town, obviously.” Saw Dust stares at the stream with wide eyes. For the first time, you can taste a bit of his fear, and for a moment you think he might decide this isn't a good idea after all. But no. He bobs his head, and together you step across the flowing water. It is like night in the Everfree, even though the sun is high overhead. Little light penetrates to the forest floor, and what does is quickly lost in the perpetual fog that shrouds even the shadows here. The trees themselves are large and stately, their trunks like columns holding up the roof of the world. Here and there, encountered as you walk, one of them has fallen, opening up a glade in the mists. The sounds of insects surround you, and high overhead you hear the chirping of birds. None of this is particularly worrisome to you. These are only the edges of the Everfree, the margins, where a pony might be forgiven for mistaking this for a regular woods, albeit an ancient one forgotten by time. The true Everfree, the mad, bleeding heart of nature, lies miles ahead. You choose not to say any of this to Saw Dust. His eyes are wide, and the hair of his coat stands on end. Each cracking stick beneath your hooves sends him skittering, and he sticks close to your side. His fear is a sour cloud following you around. And yet, he stays by your side. Bravery has no taste – it is not an emotion like fear or panic or hatred. It is, rather, action in the face of paralyzing fear. It is what a pony does, not what he feels. “How are you doing?” you ask, careful to keep your voice low and calm. “I'm fine,” he answers too quickly. He licks his lips. “What are we... How do we find red ferns?” You wait a while before replying. Another mile passes, and the shadows in the forest around you deepen. “The Everfree changes things,” you say. “I've been here before, hundreds of years ago, and it was much the same. The deeper one intrudes, and the longer one stays, the more the Everfree leaves its mark.” Saw Dust gawks up at you. “How old are you?” That's... an interesting question. One that doesn't have an answer, at least not as ponies would understand. “My last hatching was a dozen years ago. I remember... I don't know, actually. Thousands of years, I think. We don't keep track of time like ponies.” You can tell he doesn't understand. He blinks a few times, and then shakes his head before focusing back on the uneven forest floor. “Okay, so... what's that have to do with ferns?” “Red ferns are only mildly touched by the Everfree,” you say, hopping up onto a fallen log. Ahead, the forest brightens, and you can see the edges of a clearing. “You can find them on the edges of the forest, where we are now. We won't go much deeper today.” The clearing quickly comes into view, and you pause at its edge. It's true that the more dangerous of the Everfree's inhabitants – manticores, timberwolves, and dragons, to name a few – don't usually wander so near its borders, but “usually” doesn't mean “never.” And in a clearing like this, where the dark halls of the forest give rapid way to the bright sun, and your vision is clogged by the rampant growth of greedy, clutching shrubs, it would be very easy for a predator to lie in wait. In fact, you're counting on it. “Wait here,” you whisper to Saw Dust. He gives you a jerky, tight nod, and you step into the dense undergrowth surrounding the clearing. Your sight is lost immediately. Thick leaves and branches push against your coat, clawing at you, trying to keep you from the open glade beyond. You ignore the scratches and push onward. Finally, sunlight touches your face. You close your eyes and let the spark of magic flow out from your heart, and the earth pony disguise melts away. Just as quickly a new illusion takes its place, something very different from a pony. Feathers sprout from your face and shoulders, and you rear back as your forelegs twist into wings. Scales erupt from your skin, quickly covering everything down to the tip of your tail, and you open your beak to let out a quiet hiss of warning. Nothing answers. You step into the clearing as an adult cockatrice, a creature few monsters in the Everfree would willingly challenge. Only silence and emptiness greets you. You can't smile – you have a beak, now. But if you could, you would, and you stretch your vocal cords, shifting them to produce sounds beyond anything a real cockatrice could manage. “It's safe, come in,” you call. There is a rustle from the bushes, followed by a pained mumble. The leaves rattle some more, and a moment later Saw Dust pops into the clearing. He shakes his mane to dislodge the leaves sticking in it, and then he looks up. When he sees you, his expression is surprise more than fear. You're almost disappointed. Maybe it's the chicken head. “Is that you?” he asks. Well, so much for surprises. You let the illusion drain away, and the cockatrice disguise vanishes in a swirl of green flames, leaving only the naked chitin with which you were born. “It is. We're safe here. No monsters.” If anything, he seems more impressed by your true form. Rather than answer, he bounds over the swelling grasses and slowly, hesitantly reaches out a hoof toward you. You nod, and he touches you, sliding his hoof along your leg. “Wow. Is this the real you?” “All my forms are real,” you say. “This is the one I was born with, though. Now, look around. What do you see?” Saw Dust pulls his hoof away with some reluctance, and then spins around in a circle. “Um, plants?” “Yes, but what is different, here?” “We're... we're not in the forest?” He stops and frowns. “Or, we are, but we're in a clearing in the forest. The plants here are different than over there.” He points his hoof back to the wall of vegetation through which you came. You nod. “Correct. Many of the Everfree's treasures are found in these liminal places. Thresholds, where forest becomes glade, or stream becomes swamp. They are where you must also be careful. Monsters love these places as well.” “Is that why you were that...” he stops, clearly at a loss. “That thing?” “That was a cockatrice. If there had been any monsters hiding here, it would have scared them off.” Probably. You hope, at least. You've found the broken, tooth-marked bones of many cockatrices in your wanderings of the Everfree. Saw Dust doesn't need to know that, though. “So, red ferns grow here?” “They might.” You turn and begin to pace along the edge of the glade. “Follow me.” Saw Dust stays in your footsteps as you walk. It is a large clearing, nearly fifty meters across, and you have visited it before. You know a few spots where red ferns sometimes grow, especially this early in the year. Ahead, there is a fallen tree, covered in moss and lichens, and you beat a straight path toward it. A cloud of bees swarms around the fallen trunk, but you ignore them, walking through their harrying buzz toward the uprooted bole of the tree. You hear Saw Dust pause at the edge of the swarm, but after a moment he takes a deep breath and plows through them as well. Finally, you reach the bole of the fallen tree. It is a tangled mass of roots and dirt, much taller than you, and in the pit it left behind a pool of muddy water has gathered. In a few years the tree will rot, and most of the dirt will fall back into the hole, or the water will silt up, and nothing will remain of this scar. But for now it is a break in the glade, which itself is a break in the forest, and that is two thirds of what a red fern needs to grow. There, nestled in the shade beneath the fallen trunk, you see a spot of crimson. You point it out with your hoof, and Saw Dust lets out a delighted gasp. “It's... it's red!” he says. “Yes. Can you squeeze in there and grab it? Just pull it up by the roots.” It's a tight fit, but Saw Dust manages to claw his way through the loose dirt to the fern. He grabs it by the base with his teeth and gives it a sharp yank. The plant resists at first, but ferns have weak, fibrous roots, and soon a tearing sound heralds his success. He scampers back out, smeared with dirt and rotten bark, with a fern as bright red as blood held proudly in his mouth. He spits it out and makes a face. “It tastes like nails,” he says. Like spite. “That's the iron. It's why it's red.” You lift up the fern and place it in your saddlebags. “Did you see any others in there?” He shakes his head. “Why are they like that?” “Magic?” You shrug. “They only grow in the Everfree, on the spot where an animal has died.” The next several hours pass in a breeze. Saw Dust asks questions, and you answer them as best you can. Your jaw begins to hurt, so unused are you to prolonged speech, but you don't complain. If anything, the act of talking seems less onerous than usual. Easier. Like drinking water, rather than chewing wood. The two of you find another three red ferns, by which time the sun has begun to dip back toward the horizon. Rather than risk the Everfree after dark, you strike back toward town. You spend the last mile of the walk wondering if you should take Saw Dust back to his home, but as soon as you reach the edge of Ponyville he bursts into a run, giving you a final wave before vanishing amidst the town's rows of houses. Huh. You watch him go, and return to your cabin for the night.