//------------------------------// // Cave // Story: A Light in Dark Places // by Lucky Dreams //------------------------------// Home was warm that evening, but Apple Bloom shivered in her bed; not in living memory had there been so blue and frostbitten a winter. Despite the fires, the radiators, and the comfort of her hot water bottle, the cold still skulked inside of Apple Bloom long after she had walked back from school. “A-Applejack,” she said to her sister through chattering teeth. “The sun couldn’t f-freeze, could it?” Having already wished Apple Bloom goodnight, sweet dreams, sleep tight, Applejack paused halfway out the doorframe, before turning back around to face her sister. Apple Bloom’s eyes were wide, and her hooves were jam-packed with trembling. “What makes you ask that, sugar cube?” Applejack said, raising an eyebrow. Apple Bloom gulped. “Well, it’s just… it’s just…” But the truth was frozen in her voice-box, so Applejack thawed it out by whispering, “Apple Bloom, you can tell me if something’s botherin’ you. You can tell me anything, even if you think it’s dumb. I promise I won’t make fun.” Apple Bloom bit her lip. A moment later, the truth burst free from its icy prison. “Well it’s just, in school today, Miss Cheerliee was talkin’ about before the first Hearth’s Warming when the sun and the moon never shone, and all them poor ponies were freezin’ and hungry. I was wonderin’ what it’d be like if I was freezin’ alongside ’em, in the dark, in the cold, and—” And enough, thought Applejack. Enough, enough, growled the thunder of an oncoming storm, a storm drawn to Apple Bloom’s terror as wolves are drawn to wounded prey. “Whoa there, filly,” Applejack said. She smiled at her sister, and contained within her smile was the warmth and cheer of a crackling fireplace on a December night. “That’s what’s got you in a tizzy? Now listen up: that there was thousands of years ago, and the sun and the moon ain’t going nowhere. You’re snug in bed and that’s what counts, you hear?” “But just say—” “Or you can sleep in with me, if you want. Just tonight, mind, sugar cube.” The offer came suddenly, much too suddenly for little Apple Bloom who had been casting her words for cuddles. Folding her forelegs, she sat up straight and said, “I was only askin’, Applejack. I ain’t a baby.” Yet it was all she could do not to jump when the wind wailed through the branches of dead trees, when regiments of hailstones attacked the house, and when the hail was followed by legions of sleet and rain which thrashed against the rooftop. Applejack hit the light off – “No, don’t,” squealed Apple Bloom – but the older pony left, saying, “Hold on a minute, li’l sis.” Apple Bloom held onto a minute. She gripped her blanket, shiver-shaking at a flash of lightning. Two flashes! She grasped tighter. On the third flash, thank the heavens, thank all that was warm and cosy, Applejack returned with a lantern full of fireflies, whose soft light sloshed around in the gloom of the bedroom. “A light for you, sugar cube,” Applejack said, placing the lamp upon the bedside desk. “A light for you in dark places.” Apple Bloom gulped a second time. “I told you Applejack. I ain’t scared.” Applejack wasn’t fooled: she understood the language of sisterhood, a language huddled in the spaces between Apple Bloom’s words, visible in the twinkling of her eyes, and present in the touch of the filly’s hoof against her fur. Out loud, Apple Bloom insisted that she wasn’t scared, she swore that she wasn’t frightened. Not her! No way! No way did she need a night-light! What Applejack heard, however, was Thank you, Thank you; then she kissed her little sister on the forehead, a kiss to say, I love you. I love you. Applejack left, shutting the door behind her. Apple Bloom was alone. Sister lost and sister shaken, Apple Bloom lost and quaking, Shaking! Apple Bloom lost and shaking! Sister, sister, don’t you see? Come back, Applejack. Come hold me! Hold me! “NO!” said Apple Bloom, and as she sat upon her bed, with branches rapping at the window pane, with the ratta-tat-tat of hailstones drumming in her ears, a sense of grim purpose came to her. She was eight years old. No: eight-and-three-quarters. No: eight-and-sixth-sevenths. Why, she was practically nine! A big filly, all grown-up, and big fillies did not sleep in with their older sisters. Big fillies weren’t afraid of storms or of the dark, or of the sun freezing over, or the moon eloping with the stars, never to shine again. So she said to herself – she commanded herself – “Don’t run to her. Fall fast asleep in your own bed, ’cause you ain’t a baby, Apple Bloom. Don’t let nothin’ scare you.” Sister brave, Bold, audacious, Courageous! Apple Bloom bold and courageous! Sister, sister, don’t you see? Search the land, then search the seas; You won’t find another half as brave as me! But the thunderstorm disagreed. “Apple Bloom,” it said, its growling voice enveloping the tiny filly and her bed – blanket, mattress, pillows and all. “Look at you, little filly in your little bed in your little house. You think you’re not scared? You consider yourself brave?” “I’m the bravest filly there ever was. Leave me alone.” “Apple Bloom, o sweet, delectable little Apple Bloom,” said the storm. “Hear me now and hear me clear: monsters are coming to get you, monstrosities with sharp teeth and crunching jaws. When we get you, the sun will freeze. The moon will break. Everything will be dark forever.” “Storms don’t speak,” Apple Bloom said, firmly, and she shook her head. “You’re just a voice inside my mind, so I don’t have to listen to you. Anyway, you’re lying. I know you’re lying. There ain’t no monsters in here, ’cause Applejack already checked beneath my bed.” “A liar, am I? Not real, are we? We will see. We’ll see how you cope with us in dark places.” The words held grim power over Apple Bloom. Convinced though she was that the voice dwelled within her imagination, she asked, from fear, from curiosity, “Why d’you keep saying ‘we’? Who... who are you?” The storm chuckled. “Your nightmares, of course! And if you think you can make it through tonight without being gulped down scrumptiously, swallowed up deliciously, then think again.” It was late enough now that Applejack had trotted off to bed. In her absence, every shadow was a darker shadow, every draft a gale, every raindrop a bullet, every thunder the crash of towering waves against the old, old house. Monsters were coming to get her… But she was brave! Monsters were drawing in… But she was bolder than bold, tougher than tough, stronger than strong. She refused to bend before the storm; she would not scream; she would prove to herself the strength of her own bravery. She would prove herself a big filly and not a cry-baby. Grabbing the lantern, she shut her eyes, dived under the covers and whispered, “I ain’t gonna go and wake Applejack. I can handle this.” When she opened her eyes again, it was to find herself trembling in a mighty cavern with space enough to swallow twenty, forty, sixty of her house. The floor wasn’t rock, but stitched from endless sheets and mattresses uncountable. The walls were blankets: hungry blankets, starving blankets, greedily devouring the roar of the storm. And so the bed-cave was silent save for Apple Bloom’s worried breathing, the pumping of blood through her ears, the pitter-pitter and patter-patter of fireflies against the sides of her lamp. Unsure of what to do, she lay and thought of ponies from over a thousand years ago huddled in the stomachs of night-drowned caves, praying for the sun and for the moon. Apple Bloom prayed. She prayed for Applejack. “I ain’t scared. I’m... I'm not afraid of bein’ alone.” “Is that so, filly?” Summoned by Apple Bloom’s fears like moths to a light, monsters had clawed their way into the stronghold of the bed-cave. A shock of cold sped through her as before her eyes, a wolf emerged from the shadows: taller wider larger than a draft horse, with a body made from ice and midnight, and with the eyes of one who would never know the language of sisterhood. “Monsters are coming to get you,” snarled the wolf, and its breath was snow, its fangs were icicles. Apple Bloom screamed. Pausing only to grab the lantern she dashed, she galloped, she flew! Down passages built from pillows, through tunnels of fabric, shafts of stitching, a warren of warmth. A voice in her heart, the voice of her instincts, hissed at her that there was more to the lantern than brass and light. “Which way, which way?” she asked of the lamp. “This way! This way!” replied the fireflies, glowing bright to indicate the correct tunnels to choose. Fangs at her heels— Claws at her hooves— Light in the darkness— Out through the exit Apple Bloom charged, tumbling into an embrace of wooden floorboards and a bright pink rug. The walls here were a treasure trove of sisterhood: photos of herself and Applejack; old crayon pictures scribbled on July afternoons; birthday cards from when she had turned four and five; Hearth’s Warming Cards from when she had been six and seven; and paintings of apples, apples, apples. She was back in her bedroom! And when she looked over her shoulder, oh delight, oh thank the stars: the wolf was gone. The cave was gone. In their place slept her plain old bed. “Hah!” she said to the storm. “I told you that you couldn’t scare me. So leave me be! I ain’t scared of nothin’.” “So you keep saying,” chittered tiny, glitter-glinting voices. It was the fireflies in the lantern again. They said: You’re not scared: you’re brave, you’re fearless, But you of the light, take care, please heed us. Song of your heart, and song of your soul, With all of your heart, please, please hear us: Speak with a loved one, have a care, please whisper, “I’m scared, Applejack,” you must say to your sister. Apple Bloom, Apple Bloom, peerless, fearless, Take care, take care, please, please heed us. Apple Bloom gave the fireflies a sister-warm smile, though said to them, “That’s nice an’ all, but I’m a big filly, now, and I’ve gotta act like one. Tellin’ others that you’re a fraidy-cat? Why, that’s what babies do.” Picking up the lantern with her teeth, she placed it on the table – but frowned, for it was a table now littered with levers and buttons, with dials, with pedals, with brass fixings and copper pipes, and with a gearstick and a steering wheel. Monsters had transformed her bedroom into a submarine! Which meant that the bed-cave had been merely the first of their foul games; sure enough, out through the window Apple Bloom saw that the storm had swept away the rest of her house, and that an ocean surged in place of the farm, soaking peaks and sopping troughs. “No escape, Apple Bloom,” growled the storm. “There’s no seasoning quite like a child’s terror, so make no mistake: once we’re done scaring you, we’re going to eat you, good and proper.”