//------------------------------// // Prologue: The First of the Prophets // Story: Equine, All Too Equine II: The Days of the Prophets // by stanku //------------------------------// “You heard me just right, son,” said Mr. Grasswell, not even looking at the youth behind his desk this time. “You’re fired. Pack your stuff and get out.” The earth pony colt’s eyes, wide from the shock, blinked. “Mr. Grasswell, you can’t! You have to gimme another chance! Please! I beg you!” Grasswell snorted into the papers he had started arranging. And that was that. The youth’s lip trembled as he took as step forward. “You don’t understand: my landlord said she’d kick me out if I couldn’t hold onto a job until the end of the week! And it’s Friday! I’m gonna wind up on the street!” “Plenty of room in the beggars’ house still, I hear,” grumbled the aged stallion, again mostly into his papers. “Besides, that ain't my problem. Got enough of those already. Off with you now, before I lose my calm.” The colt winced at the mention of the beggars’ house. Most of them were indeed empty, that was common knowledge. One barely had to get two blocks from them to get why they were shunned. It wasn’t correct to call the place a dump, but only because that would have been an offense to dumps everywhere.   He kneeled in front of the massive oaken desk. “Mr. Grasswell… I beg you. I pray to you. One more chance. I’ll do a triple shift with half the pay. I’ll do anything. Please.” From under his thick eyebrows, Grasswell glanced at him. Whether the glint of pity the youth saw in those grey eyes was simply a reflection of his glasses or the genuine thing, he could not say. The sigh that followed was heavy with something, at least. “Look, kid… I’m not doing this ‘cause you’re a bad dyer. Frankly, you’re the best in the lot I hired this month. The best and the only one whose damn uncle ain’t my wife’s cousin or something like that.” He put down the papers and gave him a blank look. “Times are hard. Folks ain’t buying clothes like they used to. I got to lose employees or lose the business. And that’s the long and short of it.” The colt remained on his knees, shivering, eyes cast on the mattress. The sight made Grasswell feel wretched inside. The colt was not a bad dyer nor a bad pony. Really he was a joy to have around: funny as heck, or “as funny as they come”, as he’d often said to him. There was nothing funny about him now, that was for sure. “Get up, son. You’ve no reason to kneel in front of anypony. Me least of all.” Partly to his surprise, the colt got up. His gaze remained on the carpet. As he slowly walked to the door, Grasswell made himself say: “I’ve heard a rumour that somepony crazy enough is planning to open the mine at High North Lane again. If that’s the case, they’re gonna need somepony as crazy as them to go down there and see what’s up with the old tunnels.” The youth gave him a short nod, then closed the door quietly behind him. Grasswell fought against the urge to run after him. The kid really was a good worker, and there was a time when he would’ve fired himself before losing a pony like that. But hiring a relative meant hiring more customers on the side. They might do half as fine work, but at least he could count on the products to get passed on. In these days, that seemed like the only thing that mattered anymore. The damn griffons were behind everything, of course. Last week, the city had almost been evacuated because of them. Things were calmer now, supposedly, but you could still sense that something wasn’t right. Everypony was standing on an edge made out of rumours, and the only thing holding it all from collapsing was that nopony dared to move much. All this considered, it wasn’t the best of times to try and sell new clothes to folks. Still, not all the rumours were born of panic. The new Captain of the Guard, whose face stared at Grasswell from the front page of the paper on his desk, seemed like a pony with a Plan. Just the day before yesterday he had held a big speech, all loaded with big words like Peace, Future, Freedom and such. Apparently they had made a deal of sorts with the beaked devils. Whether “they” meant the Parliament, the city or the Guard didn't mean much to Grasswell. So long as somepony was in control, keeping things rolling in a way that could distantly be recognized as the everyday, he’d be content. In the meantime, that new batch of saddles wasn’t going to sell itself…                                                 *** It was early next day when the youth found himself in line with five other ponies whose last straw in life went by the name of High North Lane mine. He looked around, wondering what stories lay behind those hollow, hungry faces and tired eyes. Or was it only his own reflection that he saw there? Either way, he was alive, here and now, and the world wasn’t going to offer him anything he wouldn’t be willing to fight for. Or so said the overseer who introduced himself as Iron Hard. “Only six answered the call, eh?” he said, eyeing the would-be recruits over his dense moustache. “And here I was thinking the times were difficult. Must be false when an honest job only stirs five buggers from the bottom of the barrel.” A colt about the same age as the youth coughed on his left side. “Are we gonna get payed extra for the first time?” Iron Hard gave him a smirk which any shark would have envied. “Sure, luv. As sure as you’re gonna find a free bordel down there.” He spat on the colt’s feet, and gave the others the same toothy smile. “I dunno what you all have heard about this place and job, but whatever that was you’re gonna forget it right now. You’re the bottom of the barrel, like I just said. That ain’t slander but truth. I could tell there’s a changeling army down there in the shaft, waiting to suck the life out of you, and all you’d ask to know was if that got me to pay you extra. It wouldn’t, mind you. But the point is that you need a job worse than a mare in heat needs the tender touch of my tongue, and that’s saying a lot. So if any one of you has anything to say that includes the words ‘pay’ and ‘extra’, they can consider themselves sacked on the spot. Questions? No? Great.” “Sir?” said the same colt carefully. “You were joking about the changelings, right?” Iron Hard rolled his bulging eyes. “‘Course I was, sonny. If I weren’t, I’d be hiring them instead of you. Would cost me nothing to feed ‘em all the orphans I could get my hooves on.” He laughed long, heartily and absolutely alone. “Okay, okay, ‘nough with the jokes, “ he finally said, wiping his eyes like a frog’s. “Since no one has left yet, I take it you’re really into this. As I figured the moment I saw you. So here’s the deal: I plan on opening this wreck of a mine. For that, I needs to know how bad the situation is down there; which tunnels have collapsed, which are about to and so on. And for that, I need somepony to go down there and see for themselves. Here’s where you lot come in the picture.” “But wasn’t the place closed when it ran out of gems?” asked somepony. “For starters, it’s a crystal mine,” corrected Iron. “Second, it never ran out of anything but workers brave enough to hold on to an honest job. Let’s just say that ‘unfortunate circumstances’ led to its closure. One nasty accident, to be frank. But it’s all ancient history,” he hurried to add when a collective shudder travelled over the collected ponies. “Trust me: the tunnels that still stand are sound to trot on. Just don’t touch anything much and you’ll be right as rain. On that point, hoof up anypony who can’t tell a lethal fracture in rock from non-lethal?” Six hooves rose up in unison. Iron Hard shook his head slowly. “Okay, okay, this might take a tad longer than I anticipated. Whatever, that mine’s not going anywhere. Not likely, anyway.” After a two-hour speed introduction to the “essentials of the art of prospecting”, like Hard called it, the youth, along with two others, started their descent into the tunnels on an abandoned digging site right outside the city. According to Hard, it was the surest, if not the safest, place to start inspecting the mine’s condition. The first team to go in, while definitely not getting any extra pay, enjoyed the advantage of “cementing the nigh-eternal future in the coming mining corporation Iron Hard & Co.”. The promise was not the hardest currency around, but at least it was currency. The three of them arrived to the first crossroads. The youth opened the side of his lantern and lifted it in the air, seeing if there was any draught. The flame flickered, but not strongly enough to give any hint of the right direction. “Any ideas?” he asked. “Let’s just get back and say the tunnel’s collapsed,” said the colt who had stood on the youth’s left. He was a pegasus, and clearly uncomfortable with his immediate surroundings. “What do we care? He has to pay us anyway. If you can call it pay.” “Good point,” said the third one, an earth pony like the youth. “If he’s gonna treat us like rats, we might as well act like ones.” “I can’t,” said the youth. The two others frowned, so he had to add: “I need the money. All of it.” The two others exchanged a look. It was clear they could not return alone. The youth wondered whether they were thinking of a possibility in which the tunnel had not already collapsed, but came down on him as they were inside. “Fine,” said the pegasus. “We’ll move on. You first.” “We still got to decide where to,” said the youth. “There’s no draught except where we came from.” “Split up?” suggested the other earth pony. “I don’t think that’s a–” “Sure it is,” said the pegasus, walking beside the other earth pony. “We’ll just take this tunnel and you the other one. Saves time and effort both, yeah?” Yeah, thought the youth grimly. It’ll be much more effortless to wait a few hours on an empty corridor and then walk out without the risk of getting caught or told on. Out aloud, he said nothing, but only walked to the tunnel assigned to him. An argument wasn’t something he was keen on stepping into, on top of everything else. The tunnel forked four more times. At every crossroads he made a mark on the wall with glowing chalk and another on his map. The air was stale but dry, which was important. Nothing would ruin a mine like water, he had been told. He spotted some cracks in the walls, but otherwise the mine seemed to be in better condition than Iron Hard has expected it to be. The notion came as somewhat of a relief to the youth. His heart still upped its beat with every step deeper into the darkness. Sweat stained his hauler from inside even though it was comparatively cold in the tunnel. He flinched at every sound of rock scratching rock, half expecting his footing to give away at every new step. But nothing happened, not even as his wrist clock told him he had already spent over an hour here. At his sixth intersection, he actually believed he might survive to claim his first meager pay. Then the ground gave away under him. His scream choked on his heart that had jumped to his throat, then on the tons and tons of gravel that fell around him. His lantern went out in a shower of splintering glass. After all the noises died, he thought he himself had, too. After a few minutes, or perhaps some hours, he felt calm enough to try and find his way out. It seemed like he had fallen into another tunnel from where he could not climb up. Thus he had to pick a direction and hope. It was a situation he had been in before. His whole life, in fact. He felt his way along the wall to the left. Soon, puddles of water splashed under his hooves. The air was humid and filled with dust. He tried to think of happy thoughts; sights of meadows of midsummer, flooding with flowers, sunshine and life. It was a shame he hadn’t actually seen any such sight forever. Nopony had. Such things belonged to books, or to the old mares’ tales. But they were everything he had now, so they would have to do. His breath convulsed when he hit the end of the tunnel. It had collapsed, which meant the other end probably was just another trench, nothing more. He sat down, wrapped his front legs around him and let the tears come. He had held them back too long. I’m going to die here. I’m going to die here. I’m going to die here. He tried to think it, really think it, but couldn’t. It was just a sentence. It didn’t really mean anything. My death means nothing. That was a thought anypony could rage at. “No!” he screamed, bouncing up. He started digging into the wall, hurling rocks aside, scrambling to remove every last boulder in his way to freedom. He shouted, cursed, screamed until his limbs grew heavy as lead and his lungs felt like a pair of sandbags. The rocks did not end. His power dwindled with every new breath of the lifeless air. Still he dug. Blood oozed from the cuts and scratches on his hooves. Still he went on. Through rock and stone, he fought for his life. His meaningless little life. A draft. There was a draft; a breath of an angel. It came from a crack in the rock, barely the size of a feather. He dug into it in frenzy. Gradually, the hole grew larger; now it could fit his front leg. There was more than mere rock behind it – space. Precious empty space. Few more rocks to fit another hoof; two more to let in his head, shoulders, pelvis… He got through and rolled on the ground, panting. The air was cleaner here. Not much, but enough to make him praise the gods for it. Moreover, it smelled different: organic. Like a sewer. I must be near the surface. The thought pulled him up just by itself. He sniffed around, trying to locate the direction of the sweet, rotting stench. It came from that way, he decided, and carried on. The rails ran here, which meant the ground under must be pretty solid. He hastened forward. Soon the wall ended, expanding beyond his reach. He had come to some sort of a room. Water flowed here. A whiff of something burnt, like a candle, lingered amidst the disgusting smell. He went on, but more carefully now. His leg bumped on something. Something alive. Or something which had at some point been alive. It had fur. And four legs. All this considered, it seemed like a pony. A dead pony. His ears pressed against his skull. ”Hello?” he called out. ”Is anypony there?” His voice sank into the tumult of the stream. And then a hoof landed on his shoulder. “Hi.” The youth wanted to fly, but could not so much as shudder. Plain terror was not completely at fault. The hoof did not feel hostile, nor did the voice. In some strange, eerie way it was the most soothing touch he had felt for years. It felt like his own numb limb did in the mornings when he had slept on it – foreign yet familiar. Uncanny. “What is your name?” asked the voice. The hoof still rested on his shoulder, perfectly at ease. “Bolt,” the youth said without thinking. “Just Bolt?” “That's what they sometimes call me, too. 'Just Bolt'.” The terror was still there, right under the surface, but the joke stuck from it like a surfacing whale from sea. An involuntary shudder passed over him. “I thought I'd die here. I was prospecting the mine, but fell into a hole. I don't know how long I've been here. Please, could you help me?” “Yes. Oh yes, we can help you. More importantly, you can help us.” “Us? Are there others here?” “More than one,” said the voice. Bolt could not quite tell if it was a mare or a stallion he was talking with. “Were you working here, too? We're in the sewers, right?” “No, not in the sewers. The drain you hear and smell only leads there. We're still in the mine; right above the Parliament.” Bolt sighed in relief. “So you know how to get out of here?” “Yes. We know the way. Have no worries.” “You have no idea how glad I am to hear that.” “Perhaps we do, 'Just Bolt'. Perhaps we just do.” The pony humphed, as if they had spotted the punchline of a particularly complex joke. “Just. That rhymes with lust. And with must.” “Yeah...” said Bolt carefully. “Say, for a second I thought there was a body right in front of us. I know it isn't really, heh, but... well, I just can't decide what it exactly–“ The hoof grew a tad heavier on his shoulder. “It was not by chance that we met, Bolt the Just. Providence has guided your fall, delivered you to us. Without you, we would have perished here. And with us, the world.” “Ah-ha.” “I hear suspicion in your voice, Bolt the Just.” “That's not my name,” said Bolt. “It's just Bolt. Can we go now, please? I think they're missing me up there.” “You said it, Just Bolt. We will go in a moment. But first, we want you to see something.” “Uh, look, I appreciate the offer, but I think I really should be going by now. It's not that I wouldn't want to stay, you know, it's just that, uh... well, I don't.” “You are funny, Bolt. Isn't that what they say about you? Funny as heck? As funny as they come?” Bolt turned to look over his shoulder, but the darkness was just as thick there. He could not even make out the hoof on his shoulder. “Who are you?” The hoof let go of him. It took Bolt a moment to realize it had. Suddenly, the air felt very chilly. “Hello?” he ventured. In the night under the earth, a star lit. A twinkle in the distance, gradually growing stronger. The light was soft, gentle, calm. Newborn. “So you're a unicorn?” said Bolt, blinking as the light came closer. “Could you turn that on a little bit more? I can't really see–“ He saw. The light did indeed come from a horn, and it really was newborn. Right before him, in a small cradle, a little unicorn foal lay, covered by a blanket, looking the world through large, round eyes. It's horn illuminated that and nothing more. Bolt knew nothing of magic. But even ponies who knew nothing of magic knew that it took time to learn to wield it. He had seen unicorns over ten who could not even lift a feather with their horn. Never had he heard that an infant could manage anything more than random spurts of wild energy. This was not random, that much was obvious. It was as if the foal knew what it was doing. “Why you have a baby in a place like this?” he asked, mesmerized by the sight. “Not any baby,” said the voice holding the cradle. “Watch. Witness. Believe.” The speaker removed the blanket. Bolt stared. He stared until his eyes watered, for the lack of blinking. He fell to his knees. “My gods. My gods. Forgive me. I did not know. I'm not worthy to see. I'm nothing: less than nothing. My gods.” “You are wrong, Bolt the Just. You are worthy, and more. You have been chosen. Rise now, Bolt the Just; rise and rejoice, for you are the First of the Prophets.” Bolt gazed up. “A Prophet?” “The First. Much and more will be taught to you so that you, in time, could teach others. But for now, it will do if you can lead us out from this place. It has been quite a while since we last ate.”