The House on Mayberry Hill

by Alexander

Leaving

Palmer walked down the lonesome cobblestone alley as a lone sparrow landed high up on the high sill of a window. Palmer stopped his steady pace and stood then on his hind legs, placed his fore hooves on the groove of the sill, and looked inside. The inside was as dark as the moonless night that so now shrouded Palmer’s form in shadow. A faint glint of something shiny caught his eye for a moment. He peered closer to the glass and determined that he was staring into the eyes of some small animal, probably a rabbit, and that it was staring back at him. He turned away from the window and went back around his way.

The black swirl of clouds above his head blocked out all the light from the moon and from the stars; Palmer’s old hand-e-down watch hung lazily from his neck. He gazed up into the depths of the clouds and pondered the time that he no longer knew.

The sound of his hooves against the cobblestone of the street flooded high into the still air of the late-summer night, alerting the sleeping crows along the roofs of the houses to passerby. Woken by this sound, the large black birds began to madly caw. Palmer sped up his pace.

When he came to a gate that barred his present road from a newer one that led out into the country, Palmer stopped in his tracks. He undid the lock with the faint blue glow of his horn and absentmindedly gave it a quick open. It squeaked on its ancient rusted hinges before coming to a slow stop. He made his way past the newly opened gate and closed it back behind him, stopping for a moment to redo the lock with another glow of his horn. At the sound of the click of locking tumblers, Palmer turned in his spot and whistled. In the still night, he could clearly hear the irregular plitter platter of paws coming over the crest of the hill to his immediate right. He smiled.

After Palmer had silenced the sufferable Joe, he had walked back to the hills in search of clues as to why the tragedy had happened in the first place. Had the sheep been spooked by something? But instead of finding any clues, he had found his old dog beaten and bruised slumping through the grasses. Since then, he had wondered how old Tinker had managed to survive the stampede with only bruises.

Palmer reached down and scratched behind the ears of his old loyal companion and friend. He gave the sky a gaze before continuing with his way. He slowly walked down the narrow lane that was only as wide as two large tree trunks and counted the fence posts as he went.

One.

Two.

Three.

Four.

Five and so on.

Palmer took out his old broken watch and looked at its time: quarter-to-two. He continued on down the lane.

Palmer walked past a large long bough of trees and shrubs that lined the road. The rickety fence had ended several paces ago when he crossed a stone bridge that traversed over the rapids of White Mane River. Even in the dark of night, Palmer could clearly see the bark of each of the trees. Some were smooth and round while others were roughened and angular. He reached out and touched one of the more weathered trunks and remembered, this was close to where he and Rose would speak during their afternoon meetings. He acknowledged the past and the one he lost before turning away.

A sudden gust of wind shook through the groves of trees that lined the road, sending pre-mature coloring leaves rustling off from their branches down onto the road. Palmer turned his head from the wind, turned his back to it, and took the force of it for all of what it was worth. Suddenly, just as soon as it had arrived, the winding gust had retreated back to a mere whisper. Palmer shook his head and continued on past the steady, immovable line of trees; old Tinker following close behind.

As he neared the base of a hill that was foreign to him, even after all his years as a shepherd, Palmer stopped walking and peered into the swirling mass of clouds overhead. They seemed to act like a suction system, like a vacuum, that pulled him into their depths. They were black, swirling, quick, gravitating, and oddly comforting as if they removed all worries and woes; they seemed to be like a thick heavy blanket that protected and sheltered. The poor farmer let out a curious laugh that ranged on the threshold of lunacy and sanity and began his ascent up the hill.

He marched forward with a reckless abandon and as he neared the top, he sat down amongst the rows and planes of flowers that were scattered here and there as if somepony had simply thrown them around. There were patches of daisies, patches of tulips, ranges of buttercups, and vast planes of purple poppies. In the dark of night, even the brilliant vibrant hues of whites, purples, reds, and yellows shown out like the beam from a lighthouse to nearing ships. A passing breeze rolled over the crest and took their scent high into the night and then down into the meadow valley below.

It was nearing the latter half of summer. Rose had long since disappeared and Palmer had lost everything. After the accident at the abandoned quarry, his clients had shut down and had moved on to other shepherds to meet their needs, leaving him with no source of job or income. In company with losing his clients, Palmer Orchid’s name and reputation had crumbled to a mere shadow of what they once were. Now, the poor farmer was nothing and had nothing. At least he still had his old friend as company.

Palmer woke the next morning with a cold breeze on his cheek. He rubbed the last tendrils of sleep from his eyes with the back of his hoof and raised his head from the bed of grass he had used as a pillow. Using his horn’s magic, he lifted out stray blades of grass from his coat and stood up. He cracked his back and began his walk down into the valley.

Fog swept in all around as thickly as a woolen blanket. As he neared the bottom, the disenchanted farmer stopped his descent and stood in place. He extended his hoof out before his muzzle and stared. Even though it was only a short length from him, he could barely see it; the fog swirled in so thickly that it was like gelatin. It seemed to cling to everything it touched. He put his hoof back to the ground and resumed his way through the ocean of fog.

After a while of walking at a steady pace, Palmer Orchid felt the unforgettable change of slope that could only mean that he was ascending another hill. He placed a hoof forward, then another, and then another and he began on his way up its side.

As he walked on, the fog began to thin. What once was as thick as blood was now as thin as spider’s webbing. The fog left behind thin strands of dew on the blades of grass as it retreated back to whence it came. As Palmer crested over the roll of the hill, he was met with a complete view of Klimmington.

He could see billowing clouds of smoke rise into the morning air from their chimneys and from where he stood, the decrepit farmer could only imagine their fires. He could only imagine how luminous and how hot they must be. He could only imagine relaxing in front of the fire in the mornings and then again in the dead of night. He could only imagine.

He whistled for his dog before he finally acknowledged the persistent prodding in his side. He looked down at his old dog and smiled for a while before succumbing to a feeling of utter worthlessness.

He descended down into town and walked along the rough cobblestone lanes. He turned right past the old postal office and quickly hurried down towards the town center. Several minutes later, he sat down on his haunches in front of a pouring water fountain. The fountain wasn’t much, just a simple statue of a mare with long flowing mane carved from the same white stone from the quarry, but it often served as a meeting point for ponies looking for workers and for ponies who were looking for any kind of work.

Palmer readjusted his sitting posture, took out his old broken watch, and stared aimlessly at the time: quarter-to-two. Of course he knew this to be the wrong time, but even so, the heat of late summer morning caused a streak of sweat to band around his brow. He casually wiped it away before returning to his wait.

It didn’t take too much longer for other farmers and other vendors to start filling into the square. Palmer silently watched as they walked around and talked; their exact conversations he failed to hear. After a while of waiting, he looked down at his attire and realized that he looked as much as a shepherd as a metal nail resembled a stone: the resemblance was non-existent. He looked down his front and then around at all the other ponies. He was certainly the one that was the oddest of the lot; he looked more like a homeless goon than a shepherd or farmer. He frowned and took what little change he had out his pocket. Five bits. That was it. That was all. He frowned and narrowed his brow. He stood up to leave.

A quarter of an hour later, Palmer Orchid found himself walking down a crowded street and he felt a single bead of sweat fall off his brow, land on his cheek, and roll down into the corner of his mouth. He tasted the sudden presence of salt on his tongue. He looked back for his dog, determined to never take his sight for a moment, and found him tailing close behind. He continued on his way and took a left into the open door of a wood worker.

“May ‘ah help ya?” the worker asked, raising his gaze from the tobacco pipe that he had been forming on a lathe.

“How much would it be for you to make me a Shepherd’s Crook?” Palmer hurriedly asked, as if his life depended on there being a sudden answer.

“It’d be two bits, sir.”

“Two . . . Could you have it finished noon?”

“Well let’s see here,” the worker said as he swiveled to look at the clock behind him. “It’s right now a little after nine-thirty. I can carve out a crook and have it finished by noon . . . Yes.”

Palmer reached in the front pocket of his collar and removed two of the five bits he had left. He lifted them out of his hooves with the magic of his horn and hoofed them over to the crafter. “That’s two for the crook,” he said, this time patiently.

The stallion behind the counter held out the bits in his hooves before his eyes and gave them a quick inspection. He finally spoke, “Alright there. Come back in an hour or two. I should be finished with it by then,”

Palmer looked at the clock behind the stallion’s head and acknowledged the time. He nodded and started on his way back out through the door.

“Oh feller? Before ya go?” he heard the raspy voice of the olden stallion say.

“Yes sir?”

“What’s ya wantin’ a crook for in the first place? Ya some kind of shepherd or are ya out lookin’ for hirin’?”

Palmer turned his head back to the old stallion and half-way nodded and half-way shook his head. “Something like that, old timer,” he said as he turned full circle and stood entirely in the shop again. “I used to be a shepherd. I’m just simply looking to get back on my feet.”

“Oh . . . right then. So as I was sayin’ just then, just come back in an hour or so. It’ll be ready for ya.”

“Thank you kindly.” Palmer Orchid left the shop and turned out again onto the cobblestone lane. In the late summer, the heat rose quickly in the mid-morning before cooling off in the early afternoon. He reached up to his brow and felt the heat on it. He walked on his way.

Palmer turned out of town onto a dirt path that led out into the southern woods away from the rolling hills and pastures that had served him well. He strolled leisurely on, not paying a bit of attention as to where he was going. He finally came to a stop at an old wooden bridge mottled with moss and adorned with termite holes. He bit his lower lip before placing a hoof cautiously on the old decaying wood. If one of the boards snapped, he would fall into the swiftly flowing river below. The wood didn’t give. He placed one hoof, and then another, and yet again until he had completely crossed.

The song of a bird caught his ear as he continued walking through the thickening woods. The leaves of the trees were beginning their annual change from green to mixes of reds, oranges, and browns. Palmer took a quick look over his shoulder and watched as old Tinker took playful snips and swipes at falling leaves. Smiling again, he quickly whistled and the pair walked on.

As they drove deeper into the woods, the road became more and more worn; decrepit from lack of use and care. Vegetation had grown thick along the edges and was slowly creeping forward like worms to the center of the road. Premature falling leaves rustled in the breeze.

Palmer Orchid returned to town a little after eleven. Light sweat was rolling from his brow and across the roll of his cheeks. He hastily wiped it away as he walked down the cobblestone. Even above the clattering of the other busy ponies going about their way, the shepherd could discern his own hoofsteps apart from the others. He turned left onto the narrow lane and continued until he came to the wood shop. He stepped inside.

“Ah shepherd, was just a wonderin’ when ya’d show around,” the wood worker happily said from across the counter. “The crook is ready for ya.”

Palmer stepped forward to the crafting table and took his crook with a light of his horn. It was a simple thing, about a meter long, maple, and lacquered so that the grain of the wood shown through as if somepony had painted them on.

“The actual carving of it took only a good twenty minutes or so. It don’t take long to carve a stick out of a slightly larger stick,” the stallion said proudly as Palmer examined his new crook. “The only thing that took any amount of time was havin’ the lacquer dry and whatnot. But anyhow as it is, it’s all ready.”

“Thank you for the time,” Palmer said as he held the crook off to his side.

He left the wood shop and walked further down the street to the intersection. He turned right onto a wider street and made his way into the foyer of a clothing store. There, he quickly bought a simple collar and some other pieces with the three remaining bits he had. Before he left, he took a look in the mirror and decided that he looked familiar again.

He returned to the town center a short ten minutes later with his new crook in tow at his side; old Tinker following leisurely without a care. The earlier crowd of ponies had thinned considerably in the span of time that Palmer had been gone; only a few more vendors were haggling around for anypony that they found suitable. Palmer approached one vendor whose overhanging banner was dyed a red that was a brilliant and vibrant as the horizon at the very moment the sun shows its face to the world. His brows were furrowed in anxiousness and he ignored the band of sweat forming around the ring of his collar. It was hot.

“May I help you?” the vendor asked. His voice was abnormally high in Palmer’s ears.

“Ay, sir,” he said hurriedly, nearly biting down on his tongue. “I was just wondering if you’d be looking for a shepherd.”

“A shepherd . . . no . . . we aren’t. We haven’t gotten any sheep to be herded in the first place so what good would a shepherd be to us?”

Palmer looked at the vendor for a while, his pride a little insulted, before nervously kicking the cobblestone beneath his hooves.

“But . . . “ the vendor continued, “We are looking for somepony to tend after the mice that keep invading our barn. If you’re open to killing mice for a living, then you’re free to it.”

The shepherd cast his gaze to the ground and considered it. For one, he’d be paid for something, but for another, he’d be throwing away all of what he was – a shepherd. Not only would he be throwing away who he is, he’d be throwing away his family tradition of shepherding. From his grandfather many centuries ago to his old father who was resting six feet under atop some hill to the far north of town. Then also to his mother who had run away to the growing town of Fillydephia shortly after the death of his father – Palmer tended not to think too much about how his own mother had left him to himself. He resented the mare. He angrily brushed that thought aside. He finally said, “No thank you. I can’t see myself going from a sheep herder to a rat killer.”

“Mice killer. Rats and mice are two different things,” the vendor pointed out hotly as if offended.

“Whatever. They’re close enough that I don’t give a damn.”

It was the vendor’s turn to look at the shepherd for a while. “So you don’t want the offer.”

“Not at all.”

“Then it’s your loss. If you were looking for a job, then you’ve just blown up one of your few options, farmer. I would advise being a little more open to other options.”

Palmer watched as the vendor tore down the banner that was as red as the morning horizon and fold it into a woven satchel that hug from his back. When he had finished this, he whistled for one of his helpers and they tore down the poorly-constructed, makeshift table. After roughly ten minutes of finding an odd bit of amusement out of watching them fumble around with the thing, Palmer turned away from the vendor and walked across the way to one of the others.

By three in the afternoon, or quarter-to-two by his old broken watch, nearly all the vendors had gone home for the day. All that was left were a thinning crowd of stragglers.

“Excuse me,” he said as he pushed in amongst their ranks after overhearing tid-bits of something. “What is this fair you’re talking about?”

“Eh farmer? What’s abouts it ya wanna know?” one of the rougher looking stragglers asked as he turned around. He stood far taller and bulkier than any other stallion Palmer knew. It was intimidating.

“Now Pull, be nice. I swear, you scare off anypony that tries to be friendly,” quickly said another. This one was about the same height and build as Palmer. This one wasn’t so much intimidating. “What were you asking, farmer?”

“I overheard you talking about a fair tomorrow,” Palmer quickly replied.

“Oh that,” the smaller said, “I might want to hurry up and start walking if I were you. The fair’s off in the town of Neighing which is about twenty miles to the west of Westerby.”

Palmer perked his ears at the name of the familiar town. Where had he heard it before? “Did you say Westerby?”

“I did. Why?”

“Where is it? How far away is it?”

“About a twelve hour walk out to the north of here. Honestly, if you’ve been here in Klimmington your entire life you should have some kind of idea.”

“Can I get there by morning?

“Like I said earlier, I’d probably start out on my way if I were you.”

“May thanks, sir,” Palmer said with a final wave before bounding back down the road. He streaked back by the stone water fountain and tore down the cobble to the dirt paths that marked the edge of the town and the fields. He cast a hurried gaze up towards the sun and traced its path with his eyes across the sky. Once he got his bearings, he turned right and sped off down the path.

When he came to the road that led due north out of town, he turned onto it and quickly made his way. He slowed to a walk when something nipped at his hoof. He looked down and saw Tinker lolling along with his tongue rolled out of the side of his mouth, panting and shaking from exerting energy towards running. Palmer lit his horn and lifted his dog onto his back. He continued past the broken fence posts and reddening trees.

After a while of walking, Palmer turned his head back down to where he had come and could faintly see the thin billows of smoke rising from the chimneys that he knew to be home. He lowered his head for a moment before continuing his walk. With his crook lowered by his side and his dog resting across his back, the shepherd was leaving