//------------------------------// // Glenmore // Story: The Destruction of the Self // by Cold in Gardez //------------------------------// I wake up a few seconds before the alarm rings. The bed is colder than it should be, and flatter too. There is no other pony beneath the sheets with me, their weight bending the cheap mattress and pulling me closer. My back is cold where some stallion or mare should be nestled against it. This happens, sometimes. The administrators decide that some percentage of the village’s ponies should be single for the night, and rather than pairing off at chance’s whim we are left to fend for ourselves. On some of these nights, I go in search of the similarly lonely, and engineer for myself what the village has not given me. On other nights I end up like this, and I wake up alone, without the anchor of another body to fix my sense of self. It’s not bad. But it is a little chilly, and I pull the sheet up over my shoulder just as the alarm goes off. I was done sleeping, anyway. It’s not as fun by myself. * * * “Glenmore!” The administrator calls my name and looks up with a smile as I approach. I’m one of the last names today, and as soon as she finishes with the last of us, her job is done for the next several hours. It’s a break she deserves – the administrator is the first pony to wake in the morning, and spends hours before the sun rises arranging everypony else’s jobs, families and homes. “Good morning, Chamois,” I say. “Got something good for me?” “Maybe.” She runs the tip of her hoof along the row beside my name. “Ah, you have the day off.” I wince. “Let me guess…” She nods and shoots me a small smile. “Yeah, tomorrow’s administrator. Sorry.” I wave a hoof. “It’s fine. I’ve done it a few times. Nice to have an extra day off, too.” The day off is traditional – nopony works harder than the administrator. The hundreds of ponies who live in the village all try our best to make this brave little community work, but problems invariably crop up. Some the mayor can deal with, but anything regarding a future assignment is up to the administrator and her dice. She is the only pony in the village who can change who we are or what we do. She holds everyone’s lives in her hoof. “Enjoy it while you can.” Chamois brushes a stray strand of mane away from her face. “I think I’m going to go home and collapse for a few hours. First time, you know?” “You did fine. And the afternoon is pretty easy.” After lunch Chamois will go around the village, passing out addresses for the evening. The administrator never tells ponies who their new mate is – they have to discover that for themselves when they walk in the door. “Glad to hear that.” Chamois beckons over the last two ponies waiting for assignments. I wait for her to finish with the patience of a pony who has the rest of the day off. “So, any plans?” “Maybe.” I cast my thoughts back to the last time I had the day off. “I’m sure I’ll think of something.” * * * The village general store is unusually diverse. It has to be. Ponies in the village come from all across Equestria, and they keep with them only a single memento. No other luggage, belongings, souvenirs, knick-knacks or furniture allowed. Every house in the village is well-stocked with everything a pony might need to live and then some. Belongings accumulate in them – artwork, clothing, specialized cooking implements – left behind each morning as their owners depart. It slowly piles up, until once a month the whole village takes a day off to sweep everything out and return their house to the basics. Even the foals help, though they alone in the village stay in the same home every day. Only their parents change. All this junk must go somewhere. Burning it would be a waste, so instead it ends up in the inaptly named general store, which has become over the years something more akin to a warehouse filled with every conceivable good a pony could want, and over the course of the month it slowly empties as ponies purchase back their belongings from it, only to leave them behind in a stranger’s house one morning. It is to this store that I head. I wave to the clerk as I enter and head directly to the back. My violin is where it always is. Nopony else in the town ever touches it, though there are three fiddles on the stand beside it that see frequent use. There is no difference between them, technically, except mine still bears the glow of its warm varnish, while the fiddles are worn and faded down to the bare wood. I spend a moment staring at them, trying to remember the last time the village held a true concert, then shrug and nab my instrument and its bow. The clerk barely looks up from his magazine as I drop a few bits on the counter on my way out. * * * I set a cushion in the village square, beside an old fountain that once flowed with water but now is filled with dirt and flowers. It is nopony’s job to maintain this impromptu garden, but every week or so I walk by to see it trimmed and leveled, with new flowers to replace those no longer in bloom. Somepony’s hobby – an echo of their old life, like music is of mine. I spend an hour tuning the violin and playing some basic scales. Once I was a master of this instrument, but years in the village have eroded that sharp edge, and now all that remains is the talent I fostered as a filly. It’s enough to play in public, but the concert halls of Fillydelphia would no longer welcome me back. And that’s fine. It’s a mutual feeling. Once my joints are warmed up, I walk the violin through a few slow etudes, playing from memory. They are simple songs, more designed for study than any real art, but it’s enough for ponies to stop as they pass through the square. Most of them have no appreciation for cultured music, but they know skill when they hear it, and a few of them smile as they walk away on their business. I’m halfway through a more difficult waltz when I notice a sky blue mare sitting a few feet away. She is older than me, with a few faint wrinkles around her eyes, but the smile she is wearing lifts years from her shoulders. I smile back at her and finish the waltz a few bars early. “Good morning, Hyannis,” I say. “Don’t tell me you have the day off, too.” “Bank teller,” she says. “But it’s lunch time, if you hadn’t noticed.” I glance around the square, surprised at the number of ponies. More than a few have camped out along the edge of the fountain with their packed lunches, enjoying the warm spring air and the impromptu concert I’ve been providing. The sun has advanced overhead, and noon snuck up while I wasn’t looking. “Well, that explains why I’m hungry,” I say. Hyannis fishes a pair of apples out of her saddlebags and passes one to me. We crunch on them quietly, neverminding the juice that runs down our chins. Even unicorns like Hyannis learn to stop caring about silly things like that, after a few years living around so many earth ponies. “So,” she finally says. “Any luck?” I shake my head. “Not yet.” She scoots over to sit beside me, pressing her flank against mine and wrapping a leg around my shoulder. “I’m sorry. Have you seen the doctor?” “Next week.” Somewhere in the files I will pick up from Chamois tonight is a small note, explaining that I have an appointment with the doctor in Cedarville next week. The village has no doctor of its own, and we’re not foolish enough to include that specialty in our rotation. Instead we travel out of town for appointments, or rely on the former soldiers with medical training who have since joined us in the event of an emergency. Hyannis nodded. “He’ll probably just tell you nothing is wrong, and keep trying. It took me years to get pregnant with my third.” I try to smile at her. I know she wants to reassure me, and that I should take comfort from her words. Instead it chills me, and reminds me that everypony came to this village for a reason. Hyannis only has one foal. * * * I play for a few more hours in the square, and slowly my attitude recovers. Seeing ponies smile after listening to my music does that. A reminder of days past. Chamois finds me as the sun begins its slow descent toward the mountains. She has a pair of canvas saddlebags strapped around her barrel, and she undoes them with a relieved huff, setting them beside me. They are filled with reams of paper, folders, binders and what look like a thousand loose-leaf notes. “There, all yours,” she says. “Ugh, never again.” “Don’t say that, you’ll jinx yourself.” It’s a common belief in the village that bad-mouthing a particular job will all but guarantee you receive it the next day. “Whatever. I’ve got tomorrow off. It’s already in the books.” Chamois twists her neck until it cracks, then lets out a quiet groan. “Oh, that’s better.” I loop the saddlebags over my back and start packing up my violin. “Go ask your husband for a backrub. It helps.” “Mm, dinner, backrub, sleep. Sounds like a plan.” She brushes my cheek with hers. “Sorry to dump those on you next.” I return the nuzzle. “Has to be somepony. Get some rest, and I’ll see you tomorrow.” When I arrive at my new home, I empty the saddlebags on the table in the study. The administrator’s house is larger than most others, with an extra room dedicated to the thousands of pages that make this village work. Binders filled with records going back to the founding decades ago line the walls. Somewhere in them is a folder with my name and cutie mark drawn on the cover. Some ponies, when chosen to be the administrator, spend hours going through the records. It’s a peek into the former life of their friends and neighbors. All the details that once made us special and unique, now left behind, forgotten except in the dim recesses of our fading memories and in the pages around me. It can be addicting. But I never saw the appeal in that. Instead I leave the files behind, and head into the kitchen to make dinner. * * * I am nearly done with the potato casserole when my new son, Saffron Lark, returns from school. He gives me a hug, then promptly runs upstairs to get started on his homework. For some odd reason, this makes me proud. An hour later, dinner is nearly ready, and I am setting the table when I hear the door open. Saffron Lark runs out to greet my husband, and I look up to see who he is, wondering if I will recognize him. I do, vaguely. Brown coat, tan mane, sheaf of grain for a cutie mark. I trot over and kiss his cheek. “Welcome home… Buckwheat, right? How was your day?” “Not bad,” he says. He sniffs at the air. “Potato casserole?” “Yes, I hope you don’t mind.” He doesn’t, to judge from the smile on his face. I call Saffron Lark in, and we sit down at the dinner table to eat and learn about everypony’s day. * * * It is late, and I am lying on the covers with a binder spread out before me. Ink stains my hooves and lips, and I can almost hear the pillow calling my name. Buckwheat is with Saffron Lark, reading him a bedtime story, and for the second time in one day I am alone in bed. Fortunately, my day doesn’t end that way. The door creaks open and Buckwheat pads across the floor toward me. The bed sags as he climbs in, and I let out a quiet groan as he starts nibbling at my mane, tugging the errant strands back into line and incidentally giving my scalp a lovely massage. I wonder, briefly, if Chamois is being treated this nicely by her husband. “Almost done?” he asks. His voice is muffled but audible through my mane. "Maybe. Depends what you have in mind.” I give him a little flick with my tail, in case my tone wasn’t clear. Buckwheat is perceptive, it turns out. And attentive. And gentle. As I drift off to sleep, I make a mental note to change one of the lines in tomorrow’s ledger. I hope Buckwheat will enjoy being a farmer.