The Weight
There was a chill in the air that bit at the tip of his good ear. His hooves sank into the mud beneath him with each step he took, and the inconvenience of digging himself out of it slowed his once quick pace to an almost immediate halt. Still, he trudged on, carrying his weight and the extra weight that the mud stuck to his hooves afforded him. Each step was one too few, it seemed. There were a few scarce hours before sunrise and by then it would be too late to escape; when the sun came up, Hucklebuck reminded himself he was as good as dead if he was anywhere close to Dodge Junction.
Onwards he marched.
Less than eight hours ago he’d been introduced to an unabashed, unashamed and impolite homosexual named Stormy. Three hours after that he’d had a drink with that very same pony. Thirty minutes after that he was putting the boots to him. Now, just hours after all that unpleasantness was behind him, Huck had just recently been disowned by his family, five minutes after that he’d made a narrow escape off the premises of said family’s homestead to avoid the wrathful gazes and, worse than that, punishing clutches of Sheriff Steel and his deputy. Steel was an older pony, not fit to be a bloodhound. Nashville — his deputy — too young to disobey orders, so when Huck high tailed it into the woods with a curse for the both of them fresh off his tongue, neither took after him. If he knew Sheriff Steel, and, Huck was a pony who knew every Dodge Junction resident, he knew that the old, washed out law enforcer would let him run until morn, where he’d send a letter to all the other sheriffs in all the other towns in all the other corners of Equestria.
That was fine by Huck. In an hour, maybe two, he’d clear the stretch of trees, mud, leaves and dead grass and be free. The mud slowed him, yes, and, he wasn’t one hundred percent confident that he was still traveling exactly north by northwest, but, that didn't’ matter. Those were trivial aspects of his escape.
A rock, or a branch, something exceptionally sturdy, emerged as he took another gallop forwards. Whatever it was that Huck stepped on, it was an object sharp enough to tear past the rough calloused exterior of his left frontmost hoof, break skin and establish itself in him. With a pitiful howl he doubled over head first and landed, ass first, into an extra wet and miserable smelling muddy, murky and sopping puddle.
“Son of a bitch!” Huck shrieked, rhetorically, as none were around to hear it and the thing he cursed at was in fact an inanimate object. He thrashed about for a minute, firing his hoof at every tree branch and dead leaf he could, until he realized all it stood to do was make him angrier and dirtier. He was a mess by his own admittance, soaked in sweat at first, and now, drenched with mud.
Where was good fortune when he needed it?
He needed a cigarette.
Picking himself up, wiping mud from his legs, shaking the wet dirt from his ass and then gathering his wits, Huck grunted. He was ass backwards (all but literally). He couldn’t rightly recall which way was north, south, west or east. Respectively. He was all shook up. That pitiful brain of his thumped in his head. All the trees looked the exact same, and, to make matters worse, his hoof hurt something awful.
This was how it ended. He was sure of that. Here, alone, bleeding out in the forest behind the Strokes homestead, with a town cursing his name and with a taste for his blood on their collective tongue. And for what? For Stormy? That annoyingly smart-mouthed, sharp witted, faggot? No, no, no. Not now. Not ever. There was no sacrifice too small for that queer. Least of all Huck’s very precious life.
Repulsion took over. He spat at the ground by his bleeding left hoof, shouted a few dozen curses into the air and decided that, no, he wasn’t in fact going to give up. If he was going to die, and everypony did have to at some point or another, he wasn’t going to die like this; cold and alone. No sir. Not a chance. Not now and not ever.
Like a thousand times before in his life, Hucklebuck found an inner strength and pushed on. He walked forwards. Wherever that lead. It didn’t matter. As soon as he got out of this Goddess-Forsaken-Forest he could get his bearings right after that. Apploooza, or Mud Skip Creek, or River Run, any of those shithole towns would make a grand new home. Yes sir. Giving up was not an option.
With a limp in his step, Huck trotted on. Dawn was coming. Shades of dark blue broke the dull black of night. In an hour, maybe two, there’d be just enough sunlight that he could figure out his direction, but, until then he was content carrying himself forwards.
Step after step, broken tree branch after crushed pile of dead yellow and brown leaves, Huck carried himself through the forest as best as he could manage. The rock, or piece of broken glass (whatever it was) that had lodged itself into his hoof hurt something fierce; just the same, the wound on his ear had re-opened. Every so often, when the dehydration set in, and the sting in his throat got to be too much, he’d lick his lips and taste blood, or sweat, or sometimes both.
Whatever.
He kept his pace. Each step hurt. His body was sore all over, especially in places he didn’t know a pony could hurt. His back, his thighs, his calves, shoulders, neck, hooves. All of it. Everything on his body hurt after the third, or fourth, or fifth hour of the aimless trotting he’d been doing
Sweat mixed with blood and ran down his face until it caught in the corners of his mouth and he had to spit up. His neck cracked when he turned his head to the sky. Pale blue daylight had broken through the black, finally, and with it, Huck could ever-so-faintly make out what looked like his exit. A small clearing, where the trees were thinner and he could see past them, called out to him. With a smile and a second wind, Huck took off. It didn’t matter what was past the clearing, that was a Future Huck problem, right now all that mattered was getting out of that Sombra-Forsaken forest and getting his bearings, figuratively, if not in the literal as well.
Huck wasn’t more than ten paces out of the forest before he doubled over onto his side and clutched his aching, muscular, chest. Years of smoking certainly had taken their toll on him. His chest burned and his lungs felt as black, cancerous and tumour filled as he was sure they were. Raising his head he was met with all the relief he’d need. Train tracks. No more than a few dozen feet from him and stretching as far as his eye could see to his left and to his right.
Train tracks were good and all, but the cherry on top was finding the small maintenance shack and an abandoned, or otherwise unused, handcar.
A smile, devious and crooked, crawled up his cheeks as he made his way towards them. It didn’t matter how bad he hurt, or how thirsty he was, or even that he was—by now most likely—a wanted fugitive. With a few bottles of water, a handcar and determination in his heart he could make it to Tartarus and back.
Which was what he set out to do.
He made it to the shack. Even from the outside he could tell all he’d find inside was a dilapidated mess of whatever passed for it’s former glory. The floorboards creaked and cracked under his step, the oak wood of the door had grown old and was flushed with rot, mould and mildew, and the place smelt like something had died and rotted inside of it.
If he was lucky there might be a bottle of whiskey or rum next to the corpse of what smelt like a Diamond Dog who’d shit his self right before he died.
He opened the door and took in a nasty scene: on the floor, centre of the room, lay the dead decaying body of a donkey with his stomach caved in from starvation and maggots crawling across what was left of his fur and flesh.
How cheerful.
Next to the body was a gaslight lamp, a sleeping bag, pillows and a few empty cans of beans and ravioli. Beside that the only thing of any real value; a half empty mason jar of clear moonshine. Huck stepped over the body and searched the rest of his surroundings. The place was a nesting ground of spiders, spider webs, roaches, maggots and all other sorts of Equestria’s nastier creatures. There were empty beer cans on the floor, beside stomped out cigarette butts. Cans of paint thinner, brushes, screws and lightbulbs were the only things of borderline value on the shelves in the room, save for the one transit map with intricately detailed information of the area. This, and the jar of moonshine, were the only things that Huck took.
His throat still sore, his lips cracked, vision fading just the slightest, Huck unscrewed the lid of the jar and took a sip. Not to get drunk, but just to have something in his stomach. It wasn’t water, it tasted worse than licking the floor at The Great Ball of Fire and when his head got so light he had to take a step backwards to steady himself he realized he needed water more than a bottle of homemade swill.
He looked over the map. He was a good stretch out of Dodge Junction and far past where Sheriff Steel’s law extended. In fact, he was a good deal of distance away from anything civilized. He was flat dab in the middle of Nowhere, Western Equestria.
Great.
Without water he was sure to die, and, according to the map anywhere he could find water, food and shelter was too far away for him to make it in a day. There were tiny dots on the map, that, if he were lucky, signified houses, or farms, because the closet one was less than a half day away. With the handcart he could make it there in three or four hours.
His luck was turning around. Slowly but surely.
He folded the map and put it into the pocket of his coat, then the moonshine, then he left behind the corpse and got onto the handcart. The metal had rusted, and the lugs were either too loose or too tight in a lot of places, but after a few pumps — flaunting muscles that were well past sore — and a few curses, Huck was on his way.
***
Thirty miles down the ‘whatever’ road of train tracks and Huck was feeling the full effects of an unable body up against an encouraging mind. He had only a few more miles before salvation showed it’s face in the form of a farmhouse, and still the pang of thirst, coupled with the beating sun of of midday heat on the lonesome prairie were holding him back. Every pump to the handcar was an exhausting affair. His throat felt so tight and dry he was surprised he could even breath, and worse than that he stunk so bad of sweat that he wished he could cut his nose off.
Everything hurt. Everything was terrible, but, in a few minutes he’d be done, either in the metaphorical, as in, he’d be offered good food,cold water, a warm bed and comfort, or in the literal, as in, he’d be dead.
It didn’t matter.
He’d been at it for hours, as far as he could tell. Without a sundial, or a watch, or any instrument of tracking time it was hard to say for sure just how long he’d been pushing his little handcart down the track, but, the sweltering heat from the sun overhead, and the stink of sweat that had enveloped him made him think it had been for half a day. At least.
The sun beat down on him like he owed it money. His coat hung heavy, too heavy, and each time he raised or lowered the handcart’s pump he felt like vomiting. His guts hurt. His chest felt worse. Not a single fibre of his didn’t want to be doing this anymore than another. The scenery around him made him sick. It was nothing but cacti, cows grazing, dust, sand and rocks for as far as the eye could see. Just like it had been for as long as it had been since he started.
Huck realized then and there that this might just be how and where he died, and the thought made him want to scream.
Everything was Stormy’s fault. Really. Things had been absolutely normal before he’d arrived, same as they always were; Gent was back, his workload had been cut down to a slack four shifts a week from his usual eight to ten pre-Gentle Strokes return days, he had enough money in his pocket to always afford a good time, and, most importantly, he wasn’t a wanted fugitive in the eyes of the law.
Then Stormy had to show up and ruin it all.
If he had the spit left in him to do it, he’d have hurled a loogie as far across the desert as he could to spite the pony’s name. Stormy. The homo. The spoiled rich kid from Manehattan who’d brainwashed his entire family into believing, truly and honestly, that there was no shame to be had in being a sinful, disgusting little creature of Celestia’s design.
Past the disgust, thinking about Stormy also brought a cruel little smirk to his cracked, blooded lips. Somewhere, back home in Dodge Junction, a twisted up, mangled, wreck of a pony lay in some gutter, drenched in piss, bleeding and crying. When they found him — if they ever did — and when they patched him up — again, if, — he would always be that scared little pony for as long as it took him to kill himself after he woke up.
A thought like that deserved a drink.
He raised the mason jar of moonshine up to his lips and took a swig. It burned going down, and almost made him want to hurl, but it didn’t take long before he felt warm and fuzzy on the inside. Warm, fuzzy, proud and with a renewed sense of self worth. He was HUCK. He was going to make it.
A flat, one sided, hardwood billboard stuck out in the desert like a whore in a chapel. Worn down as it was, it advertised, brazenly ‘Stillwater Dairy’ in colourful lettering, with the words ‘Next ten miles’.
Celestia, in her infinite wisdom, was truly a kind and benevolent ruler.
***
It felt like only a blink between the first billboard for Stillwater Diary, then the second, third, and, now, finally, as the handcart, with it’s rusted frame, came to a screeching halt at the end of the turn off, Huck could hardly even believe he’d made it.
Not long ago, on his approach to the farm, the desert had turned to tender green grass — for pasteurizing and grazing cows, he imagined — and the feel of each of those tiny green blades touching against his hard fetlocks was like sweet, merciful ambrosia. The air wasn’t dense anymore. There were trees, plants, bushes, shrubbery. All manner of signs of life were present here, which meant, more than anything, there was water here.
When his eyes fell on the brickstone well that stood in the midst of a field just before a farmhouse and the two separate barns, Huck could have died happy.
Dashing forwards, he cleared the distance in no time and was throwing himself against the stones, grabbing a rope that hung from the roof of the well and pulling upwards a heavy bucket of, what he could only imagine to be, ice cold water.
Celestia bless him.
When the bucket came up, and he saw it filled to the brim, Huck dunked his head into the bucket and drank in as much as he could, and then more after that. HeE drank until he couldn’t anymore, and then he dumped the rest on his back, threw back his wet mane and tossed the bucket down the well for a second helping.
“Take your hooves off the well, stand up, and turn around to face me. Slowly.”
It came from behind him, and scared the utter shit out of him when it did. A mare was talking to him — ordering him, more accurately. Her voice was hard, without a hint of anxiousness or nervousness about her.
Huck swallowed.
“Don’t make me repeat myself,” she demanded, “Do exactly what I said, or so help me…”
Huck, not quite in the mood to lose his head over something this trivial, did as he was told. He steadied himself. Sniffed at the air, then, very slowly, and very carefully, he spun around to meet the sight of a mare — built in the way that only a mare who tended a farm could be — staring him cold in the eyes. She was, unsurprisingly, an earth pony. Looking to be the same age he was, if not a fair bit younger, with a hard worn, dirtied, brown coat and a shortly cropped brunette mane.
If she hadn’t been holding an axe between her hooves in a very threatening manner, Huck might have said she looked kind of cute for a dairy farmer.
Her stare grew soft when she took in his sight, but, sensing him sensing it, she redoubled her efforts; she furrowed her eyebrows, snarled her lips and huffed through her nose.
“Take three steps towards me. Slowly.”
Huck did.
“Listen,” he began to say, only to have the mare throw him another dirty look, “I’m sorry about trespassing and all, but, I’m out of your mane in thirty seconds.” he finished, “I just needed a drink of water.”
Again her eyes fell soft. This time, however, she glanced over his form and, after a moment, she dropped the axe to the ground.
“I took you for a vagrant, or a bum,” she said, almost apologetically, “We get a lot of them who come up from wherever and try and take what they can before we chase ‘em off. Most of ‘em just stay on the land, rent free.”
“That ain’t me,” he said, “I’m just another aimless drifter,” he gave a neutral grin in a half-assed try for easing the situation, “Like I said, I’m out of your mane ASAP.” he cracked his jaw, “I really didn’t mean to cause a fuss.”
Her eyes still scanning him, she stopped when she noticed the bloodied stump where his ear had been, then the scratches just to the left of it. “You look like you’ve been on the road a while.”
“Yeah.” said Huck, licking the top of his mouth, “Something like that.”
“You’re pretty banged up too,”
“I’ll be alright,” he said, “I just needed to catch my breath, is all.”
“You need more than that,” she told him, “That hoof looks like it might be getting infected, and you look like you could use some food, too.”
Without the axe and the scowl on her face she looked almost sympathetic to him and his plight. Normally, he’d have pushed, but, if she was willing to offer anything more than a boot in the ass or an axe to the throat, well, he wasn’t going to argue.
“I... only have a few bits on me.” he said, “Money. Maybe sixty bits. It’s yours for as much water as I can carry with me on my way out.”
“Don’t be stupid,” she said, curtly, “Stillwater, that’s the next town over, is at least an hour from here, and you’re in no condition to make that looking like you do.”
Huck stared at her dumbly, “What then?”
“You can stay here… for the time being.” she told him, though she seemed just as apprehensive about offering her proposition as he did accepting it. She hardened her features. “But, so help me, if you try to hurt us, or rob us, or anything like that...”
He thought about Stormy. He thought about his cousin Gent. He thought about the way he’d probably ruined their lives.
“I wouldn’t.” he said, “That’s not in my nature.”
An impasse. Time passed while she stared at him, him at her. He lifted a hoof, she winced, tilted her head sideways, then lowered her guard down when she saw him reach his hoof backwards, trail it against his chest and reach into his pocket. He pulled out the small sack of coins he had; almost sixty bits worth, last he’d checked, and tossed it on the ground a few feet before her.
“For the water,” he said, “And, I guess also a room for the night?”
Smiling, she trotted forward, picked the sack up from the ground with her teeth, then dropped it into the pocket of her saddlebag. “I’m Lilly.”
“Huck.”
***
Lilly’s farmhouse wasn’t too different from the one that Gent’s family lived in back in Dodge Junction, or, similarly, that any other farmhouse probably looked; there were hardwood floors with creaking floorboards, four rooms in the main floor, bedrooms and a bathroom upstairs (He imagined), and a basement cellar that probably was hold to all manner of stuff and things he really didn’t care about.
She stopped a few steps past the doorway, and then he did.
“There’s a shower upstairs,” She offered, “If you don’t mind using mango scented shampoo and lemon zest soap to clean up?”
Huck grinned and then Lilly did.
“Much obliged,” he told her, “It’s been a while since I smelled any better than ‘like shit’, I reckon I can handle smelling a little bit fru-fru if it means I won’t reek like sweat anymore.”
“Towels are on the rack and the hamper’s in the linen closet.” she said, “When you’re cleaned up why don’t you come back down and I’ll take a look at that hoof?”
Huck nodded his head.
On his way up Huck took in his surroundings. On the wall leading up the staircase were framed black and white photos of Lilly, a pegasus mare and an earth pony foal. There were three bedrooms on the top floor, he didn’t want to pry, but the doors to two of them were open and he figured he might as well figure out who his hosts were. The first room was bare and mostly empty, save for a nightstand, a single bed with white cotton sheets and a painted picture of some foreign landscape. The room beside it — Lilly’s, if he had to guess — had a queen size bed, satin sheets and a private bathroom. The third door was closed and Huck didn’t want to try his luck at opening it.
Instead he made it to the bathroom.
His shower went by without anything of any real interest happening. At first the water that ran down the drain was diluted with dirt, mud and blood, but a few minutes of scrubbing himself with the lemon-zest scented soap, and washing, then re-washing his mane with shampoo, and he was clean all over again. When he finished, and he stepped out of the shower and examined his reflection in the mirror, he had to smile. He looked fresh. New. Like a pony who hadn’t just spent the better part of twelve to fourteen hours making a mad scamble from one town to another.
His hoof still hurt. The rock, or, whatever sharp object he’d stepped in had done some peculiar damage, cutting past the fetlock and into the flesh itself, and, after a few minutes of trying to pretend it didn’t bother him, Huck decided to take Lilly up on her offer.
***
“You know; you’re pretty lucky that I came across you when I did,” said Lilly, “If you’d waited more than a few days to get that hoof looked at, you might have lost it.”
“Really?” Huck asked, “I’ve taken licks from my pop worse than this little boo-boo.”
They were sitting on a couch now in the living room. There were two plastic bottles on the coffee table, one of peroxide, the other rubbing alcohol, and Lilly held a wet rag in her mouth. He’d always hated the smell of rubbing alcohol. Having been a farmer for as long as he had, he’d had more than a fair share of wounds to treat. The sting was bad, but the smell was by and far the worst part.
He tried to pretend it didn’t bother him. For Lilly’s sake.
“Well, thing is that once you break skin you’re always in trouble,” Lilly told him, “You leave yourself open to all manner of infections; gangrene, staph, hoof-rot...” she picked up the bottle of rubbing alcohol, coated the open lid with the rag and soaked it, “What was it by the way? The thing you stepped on?”
Huck shrugged, “Hells if I know,” he grunted, “Probably a rock, or a piece of glass,” he looked at it his hoof again, “Knowing my luck it was probably a malaria infected nail, or something.”
“Well, you wouldn’t be looking at malaria, at least not this far from Zebra territory…” she ran a hoof through her mane, “Either way, you should be fine after this,” she said, and smiled softly, “Hoof?”
He lifted it towards her and turned his head away.
Lilly snickered, “Don’t tell me you’re scared of a little rubbing alcohol?”
“No,” he grunted, “I ain’t afraid of a little rubbing alcohol.”
Again, Lilly snickered, “Is it the stinging, then?”
“Can we just get it over with?”
She pressed the rag to his hoof and he winced. He took in a sharp breath of air, bit his lower lip and, as she rubbed the rag into his wound, and the stinging, nagging, sharp pain spread through his hoof, he even gave out a whimper.
Lilly chuckled, “Really?” she asked, “A big, strong, stallion like you is going to get all sorts of teary eyed about a little rubbing alcohol on an open wound?”
“Shut. Up.” he barked at her.
She pulled the rag away and Huck held his hoof in his lap for a minute. It still stung, and the smell still hurt his nostrils. Beside him he heard Lilly snicker, again, and then she scooted closer towards him.
“There you go, you big baby.” she said, patting his lap, “Do you want me to see if I can find you a lollipop somewhere inside since you were such a brave boy?”
Huck groaned, but let up with his passive aggressive attitude when he caught a sideways glance at Lilly smirking.
“I wouldn’t recommend walking on that hoof too much,” she said, “Not for a few days at least. You need to give it time to heal a bit, otherwise you run the risk of getting it re-infected.”
“Right,” he said, nodding his head.
“I suppose, since you seem like you can be trusted, and you did already pay for a room, that you’re our guest for a while. So,” she said, shifting in her seat, “Is there anything I need to know about you, Huck?”
Why not start at the beginning of the impressive laundry list of felonies he’d committed? Firstly; he was a wanted fugitive, that was certainly something to note. Secondly; there was a colt laying in a hospital bed (or, perhaps, a morgue?) who he, himself, had put there. That was also something. Assault. Attempted murder (Depending on how much of a prick a Manehatten lawyer wanted to be about it.). Fleeing the scene of a crime. There were a few crimes past misdemeanours to pick from.
“Naw,” he said, shaking his head and grinning at her, “Believe it or not, and, I’m proper sure my outwards appearance ain’t none too kind to gawk at, but, I am one of the good ones. A regular old country boy down on his luck, is all.”
Lilly smiled back at him, “I was just about to say just that,” she said, “Now then, is there anything I can get you to drink while I’m up? Tea? Coffee? Lemonade?”
“I’ll take a coffee if y’all already got a pot on,” he said, “I…, uh,” he stared at his hoof, then the floor, then up at Lily, “Listen, Lilly. I do honestly appreciate y’all taking me in like this. Given the circumstances, and, flip the script, I can’t honestly say I’d do the same in your hooves, but, I appreciate it nonetheless. There ain’t too many ponies out there who’d put their trust in a total stranger like you are.”
“Believe it or not, there are still a few ponies left out here who believe in Southern Hospitality,” she told him with a smile, “But, if I’m being totally honest, I can’t say this doesn’t bother me a bit. I mean, for all I know you could very well still be an axe murderer, or something,” she sighed, but Huck could tell there was the most subtle hint of humour to her accusation, and, “For right now, at least, you can stay here, but, when Swift…” she hushed her tone “She lives here with me…”, she stared at him “When she gets home, we’ll talk more about it, alright? The three of us?”
“Can’t hardly say I’d argue against that,” said Huck. “In the meanwhile, how’s about that cup of coffee?”
***
Swift Wing was a pegasus, who lived in the same home as Lilly. He recognized her when she walked in from the pictures on the wall. She was cute, thinner than Lilly was and wore her long green and purple mane long. Her coat was silver. She, also, was staring with contempt at Huck, who shuffled in his seat. She came in with a filly, who, again, Huck recognized from the picture, but who was quickly told to go upstairs the second that Huck’s presence was noted.
He could feel the awkwardness in the air, and it bothered him.
“So, just to get the story totally, one-hundred percent here; you caught him trespassing and instead of calling the guard, or kicking him off our property, you invited him in?” she asked, still staring daggers at Huck, “What were you even doing? Where did he even come from?” she turned her scowl on him again “Who the Hells even are you?”
“I’m Huck,” he replied, giving her a purposefully annoying grin and tossing his hoof forwards, “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Swift.”
She scoffed, slapped his hoof away from her, and threw her head towards Lilly’s direction, “What if he’d been a murderer or something, Lil’-”
“Well, Swift,” Lilly began, “I suppose I’d be dead right now, wouldn’t I?”
Swift groaned, “Don’t even joke about that, Lilly!”
“Look,” said Huck, clearing his throat, “I understand that the circumstances here are a little outlandish in nature. And, I can appreciate that, but, I already paid the lady for a room-”
Swift shot him a glare, that, if he were a lesser pony, would have sent chills up his spine. Huck was not, however, a lesser pony, and so he remained calm and neutral.
“Shut it.”
Huck just grinned. “Would it help if I said I really appreciate it?”
Swift snarled at him, “Not on your life.”
“He was a mess, Swift.” Lilly explained, “I know how weird this is, but, I could see it on his face that he wasn’t about to hurt me, or you. And, lo-and-behold, none of us are hurt, are we?”
“For now...” Swift groaned.
“May I speak?” Huck asked.
“You are right now, aren’t you?”
“I’m out of here the second y’all gimme the boot,” he said, “And, hey, for what it’s worth; I reckon I’m probably a bit too pretty to be a serial killer anyhow.”
“Oh, really? Wow! Hey, I’m actually so relieved to hear you say that,” Swift droned, “I was worried for a minute there, but now…”
“Swift...” Lily said, testily.
“What?” Swift snapped, “Don’t take this the wrong way, Lilly, but this is pretty freakin’ dumb! Inviting a stranger into our home? We don’t know anything about him!”
“Well, then, Swift. Why don’t you ask him?”
Swift grunted, “Fine!” She turned her eyes on Huck. “Why here? Why did you come here, specifically?”
“I didn’t really have too much of a choice there, your highness,” Huck admitted, “I was out there in the desert for close to a death sentence worth of time, trapped without food or water, stuck out in the sun, melting my ass off out there...” he sighed, “I saw the billboards for the farm, figured I could get a glass of water off ya before I went about my way. Is that good enough for ya?”
It was sharp and biting. He probably could have done without saying it, since Swift Wing’s ugly scowl turned fifty shades meaner, but, he was sick of the accusations. Despite what had happened in Dodge Junction, he was still a good, decent, tax-paying Equestrian citizen. He was far from a vagrant, a tramp or a bum.
Now he just needed to prove it to Swift, was all.
Lily spoke up, “Swift, I know this is odd-”
“Understatement of the century there, Lilly…”
“And, Huck,” she said, turning to him without missing a beat, “I know that… well, I’m almost certain you’re harmless. And, of course, that you do mean well.”
“Appreciate that.” said Huck,
“Compromise?” Lilly offered, “He stays here, at least for a few nights... until his hoof is a bit more healed-”
Swift blew a breath of hot air through her nostrils, “Oh, come on!”
“But,” Lilly continued, turning her eyes towards Huck, “Your door stays locked at night. At least for the first few days. I’ll have the key and in the morning I can unlock it, but, well…” her eyes turned onto Huck, “You understand, right?”
Huck nodded his head.
“Good. Now, when you’re good and healed, and if you really are a pony who’s true to his word, and if you feel like you still owe us, there’s no lack of work around the farm that an able bodied, hard working, young stallion such as yourself could help us out with.”
Huck swallowed his pride and a wad of spit with it.
Lesser of two evils, he thought. Doing a few easy chores that two mares couldn’t was the least he could do to repay them, and, if it helped him earn their trust having him locked in a one bedroom, quasi-cage for a few nights, well, he wasn’t one to argue against that either.
“Lilly,” Swift moaned, “Can I please talk with you in the kitchen?”
Lilly looked to Huck, then Swift, nodded her head and then the two stepped out of the room and into the kitchen. He could hear them arguing through the walls. He couldn’t make out what they were saying, per se, but it didn’t take a genius to figure out it was more or less of the same; Lily taking his side, Swift arguing against it and so on, and so forth.
Huck leaned back into the couch, letting his body sink into the fabric. He shut his eyes, kicked his lower legs up on the coffee table and crossed his upper legs over his head as a makeshift pillow.
He had everything he needed. His wounds were healed, he had more than his fair share to drink to rehydrate him. He could leave. His opportunity was right there for the plucking; while Lilly and Swift argued about him in the kitchen he could easily sneak out of the farmhouse, make the trek across the land and head for Stillwater, which, Lilly had already told him was close enough away that he’d hardly lose much sleep finding it. Then again, Lilly had said his hoof needed mending.
Decisions, decisions...
The pitter patter of tiny hooves belonging to a foal echoed down the stairwell, then, seconds after, a hoof was prodding him in the chest and, snapping his eyes open, he was staring into the curious, tiny, face of a young colt. He was young, maybe five or six, brown in his coat, black in his mane and smiling up at Huck.
“What’s your name?”
Cocking an eyebrow, Huck grinned. “Hucklebuck.”
The foal didn’t answer with his own name, but, instead, thrust an action figure — an unimpressive, worn down looking minotaur with a cape and cowl — at him. Beside him on the floor were two others like it; one a mare and the other a fully grown dragon.
“This is Wrex.” said the colt, smiling, “He’s a knight.”
There came to be a gleam in the younger colt’s eyes the likes of which Huck only imagined a child of pure innocence could ever muster. From what he could tell, this little bastard child wanted Huck to take Wrex, and, probably, to play with him too.
“He’s a mean lookin’ little fellow, ain’t he?” Huck said, grabbing the toy from the colt’s hooves, “Is he a good guy or a bad guy?”
“Wrex is a good guy!” the colt attested, angrily furrowing his brows, “He’s saved the princesses!”
Huck held the hunk of polymer and plastic in his hooves like he was handling a used diaper. “Right,” he said, fiddling with the minotaur’s limbs.
Lilly and Swift were still arguing in the kitchen. He could hear them, and, he could only imagine this tiny, bastard child, could too. Huck picked Wrex, the action figure, off the table and stared at it.
“He looks like a homo, kid.” he said.
“Mom says that’s a bad word…” said the colt, glaring at Huck. “We’re not supposed to use that word. Ever.”
Huck grunted but kept fiddling with the toy.
“Do you know my moms?”
Huck raised a brow, “Do you mean your mom? Lilly?”
The colt chuckled, grabbed one of the other, so called, action figures — the mare, Huck noted — and galloped it across the table. “Naw…” he said.
Huck sighed, then nodded his head towards the galloping mare figure the colt toyed with, “Who’s that one, then?”
“Princess Luxabelle Anastasia,” said the colt, “Duh...”
“Huh,” Huck mumbled under his breath.
He thought again about Stormy. And his cousin. Poor Gent. Stuck in his own little sexual-identity crisis. It hurt him, and it shamed him, to know that, somewhere, back in Dodge Junction, Gent was still stuck in that same mental state of ignorant bliss he had been.
If Huck could have three wishes then and there, the first, second and, possibly, the third, would have been for stiff drinks to help him navigate his way through whatever it was that came from all of this.
“Wanna play?” asked the colt, starring imploringly at Huck. “You can be Wrex if you want?”
Huck grunted.
An expressionless face was his answer. The colt — whatever his name was — didn’t seem to understand, and, Huck realized he was all the better for it.
“It’s easy,” said the colt, “Wrex and Princess Anastasia are in love,” he told him, “They’re getting married on Tuesday, but, it’s only Sunday today, so, that means they’ve still got to defeat-” he raised the third, so called, ‘action figure’ up into the air, “General Patchface…”
Huck turned his face to the dim light coming from the half open door in the kitchen. Lilly and Swift were still arguing, he could hear. The sooner they resolved whatever tensions they had, and either offered him a bed for the night and the next dozen or so, or, flatly kicked him off the land, the better.
“I ain’t one for dolls, kiddo,” Huck told the colt, staring at him with contempt.
“They’re action figures!” the colt assured, staring grimly at Huck, “Dolls are for girls!”
Huck snorted a bit louder than he meant too, and beat his hoof against the glass coffee table. “Which one of these three gets laid the most?”
The colt stared at him, dumbly. “Huh?”
Huck grinned.
The sliding door to the kitchen opened with a whining ‘Hiss’, owed in large part to the grease that hadn’t been applied to the wheels, and then, staring meanly at him, was Swift — the pegasus — and, more neutrally, Lilly.
“Tommen!” Swift gasped, “What did I tell you about talking to strangers?”
Tommen — the colt — stared at Swift with a dull, lifeless, expression, “We were jus’ playin…”
“In your room. Now.” Swift ordered.
Tommen took on a somber, soulless, embrace. He collected his figures from the table, and out from Huck’s grip, then, with a remorseful, pitiful, look back at Huck, headed back upstairs to let the adults in the room discuss whatever it was they still had left to say.
“You.” Swift said, hardly doing more than gagging on the words.
“Easy,” Huck grumbled, “We were just playing with the kid’s dolls…”
Swift, and also Lilly, looked on at him with judgemental eyes. The kind he’d seen a million and one times before.
For whichever reason he couldn’t figure out, Huck felt both emasculated and also ashamed of his actions. It was a rare feeling, that. He wanted to snarl, or spit, or cuss, but, his body wouldn’t let him bring himself to it and instead he bowed his head.
“If you ever…” Swift began, moving towards him and winding back one of her hooves like she was ready to feed him a swift fist across the face, “I swear, if I ever catch you talking to him again…”
“That’s enough, Swift!”
Shocked, both Huck, and Swift, stared at Lilly.
“Now, we, you and I,” she said, nodding her head towards Swift, “We discussed this situation, together, and-” she geared her head towards Huck, “-We’ve decided, collectively, that you can stay here for the night...”
He had choice words to say in his defense. Words coated with malice and resentment towards Swift’s intervention, but, he swallowed his pride, and his tongue, and instead smiled, sweetly, towards Lilly, and then Swift.
“Thank you,” he said, “Sincerely.”
“Bide your tongue,” Swift grunted, “It’s only because Lilly’s got such an optimistic, silver lining, sort of worldview...”
Huck looked to Lilly. Her eyes on him were as soft and neutral as he’d ever seen a mare look at him before. He could tell, from her look, and the way she carried herself, that she didn’t want anything to do with him, sexually, and, for the first time in as long as he’d met a member of the opposite sex, he was relieved to know it.
“I promise,” he started, staring first at Lilly, and then at Swift, “I swear… I won’t ruin this for you. Y’all were kind enough to take me into your home. Y’all are gonna let me stay the night, and, hopefully the next few after, and, believe it or not, Swift,” he cranked his heads towards the apprehensive pegasus, “I am a stallion of my word. I swear, to Celestia, if y’all ever find trouble with me, and you let me know, I either aim to fix it, or be swiftly punished for it. No pun intended.”
Swift’s hard glare softened. Just a touch.
Huck aimed his muzzle towards the stairwell, “That’s a good boy you raised there,” he said, to Lilly, “He means to take this world by storm.” He softened his brow, leaned backwards into the folds of the couch again, and, when he was good and comfy, spoke “I don’t mean to disrupt the gears y’all got in motion here. I’m an aimless drifter,” he admitted, sighing, “I appreciate all you’ve done, and, also, all that y’all are aiming to do.”
Swift, and then Lilly, stared at each other, then Huck.
“If I might be so bold?” he inquired, “I have a bottle of gut-rot hooch I procured on my way out of where I’m from. I wouldn’t ever want to impose on anypony’s sobriety, but, if we’re all well adjusted to the idea that I’m going to be a burden in all of y’all’s sides for the time being, and, if it helps ease the tension any, I recommend we all take a toast to new found kinship?”
Swift grinned, snorted, then stared with half an ugly scowl, and half an intrigued grin at Huck, “Really, Huck?”
“Hey,” he said, running a hoof ragged through his mane, “All I am is a colt worth my word. Y’all have given me hospitality beyond what I’d ever have imagined, and, I want to repay that. Bit by bit…”
Swift looked to Lilly. Lilly nodded her head, then, rolling her eyes, Swift turned her stare back at Huck, “This wouldn’t happen to be roofied, would it?”
“If ya’ want I can take the first drink?” he urged, grinning, “Just to be safe?”
Apprehensively, Swift extended her hoof, “First two are on you,” she said, “Once you don’t keel over and die, or convulse, then I’ll take a drink…”
Huck just grinned. “I’d expect no less, princess.”
***
They were halfway through the small mason jar of moonshine now. Tensions that had flared before were now cooled, and Huck, Swift Wing and Lilly were all in the midst of getting to know one another, now.
“So, you smooth talking, closeted serial killer,” Swift barked at Huck, taking pause to raise the mason jar to her lips and take the tiniest bit of a sip, “Honestly. How tempted were you to rob us when you first came here?”
The mood was so mellow and non-threatening that Huck, and Lilly, and (as far as he could tell) Swift, all believed in each other now. This was something Huck was more than alright with.
“None at all,” Huck answered, “I may be a handsome, charming, and humble, son of a bitch, but, I ain’t the sort who’d rob two single mares living on their lonesome and leave ‘em hurtin’.”
He said this, reached a hoof forwards and grabbed for the moonshine. When he found it, after a minute of fumbling to grip the mason jar, he took a swig, set it down, then flashed a grin at both Swift and Lilly. Swift threw some sort of ‘knowing’ glance at Lilly, Lilly back at Swift, and Huck was stuck feeling stupid about it.
“What?” he asked, feeling dumb, “I reckon it ain’t everyday you see a pair of sisters who’re… well, I mean, Swift, y’all are a Pegasus, and, Lilly, you’re an Earth Pony, but... I guess that’s just genetics for you?”
“We’re not sisters,” Swift admitted, chuckling.
Huck cocked a brow, “Que?”
“We’re…” Lilly looked to Swift, her cheeks fell flush with crimson, then she turned to Huck, “We’re partners.”
Swift’s ugly, hard, glare returned when she threw it back towards Huck, “That’s not a problem for you, is it?”
He thought about Stormy. He thought about Gentle Strokes. He thought about all the pain, and suffering, he’d put Stormy through because of that exact same accusation coming out of his mouth. It seemed different now. Swift, and also, Lilly, weren’t Stormy. They weren’t Gent. He thought about how he’d personally shit-kicked Stormy into a hospital bed, pissed on him, swore at him and degraded him past the point of recognition. He thought about how he’d done it all because he thought that he hated fags, dykes, cunts and anyone unsavoury like them.
“No,” he said, “Not really.”