Episode 2: In the Company of Revelers, he is Silent
On the outskirts of a small seaside village, just north of Halterfax, there was a house.
Perched upon a cliff, in ordinary circumstance the house was home to two ponies. On this particular evening, however, there was a third. A scarecrow sat upon a bench on the porch, posed in the perfect image of calm. Contained by a worn flannel shirt and heavy overalls, his body was made of fresh straw. In place of his head was a pumpkin carved into a casual grin, to match his slumped posture. He lent an air of relaxation to the house, an air that most certainly would not have prepared an observer for the sounds of conflict within.
Both Nightingale and Agate stood in the lounge conjoined to Nightingale's bedroom. Nightingale wore an expression that Agate had quickly learned to be his default—none whatsoever. His face was completely unreadable as he stared out the sliding doors to the balcony beyond.
For this reason, among many others, Agate herself wore an expression of profound discomfort. Although she no longer felt threatened by Nightingale—most of the time, at least—she still found him disquieting in a way she could not quite describe. So she busied herself, picking up books that Nightingale had left where they fell and arranging the pillows on the sofa he insisted on sleeping on. She had managed to convince him to use a proper pillow and blanket, at the very least. She hoped that he would sleep in a real bed before his stay was over. That too made her uncomfortable: she had lived her entire life with a vision of the rich as opulent, extravagant, and difficult to please. Nightingale looked like a tramp, and considered warm tea with a book to be the height of hedonism.
She shook her head and brushed at her dress, a thick woolen garment in dour gray, accessorized with an equally dour apron. “The point is, Sir,” she said, “it simply isn't safe to have the windows and doors unsealed this time of year. Much less have somepony moving in and out as they please. The fog can come in a moment, and where it goes, the spirits go. Even a wisp of fog in the house would be enough for... something, to show up.”
“I shall keep salt, then,” Nightingale replied cooly.
“We don't know that will solve every problem,” Agate insisted. She trotted around him and set herself in front of him. It seemed he would refuse to look at anypony unless he was forced. Even then, there was no hint he actually saw her. “Even if it did, there's no saying it would show up right here. If I may ask, Sir, why are you so set on having that balcony open? You can see the sea just fine with the doors sealed.”
“See. Not hear, not smell, not feel the air.”
“We have a porch, Sir,” Agate said, gesturing in its vague direction.
“Which is low, and open,” Nightingale said. “And, for that matter, occupied.” he raised an eyebrow. “It seems you have security covered, at that.”
“The sec—you mean the scarecrow?” Agate asked. “He's not keeping anything away, Sir. And he'll be gone tomorrow anyways.”
Nightingale's eyebrow lifted higher, flirting with an actual expression. “You will be moving him tomorrow?” he asked.
“No,” Agate said. “He's there for the Scarecrow Festival. Every year this day ghosts come and—” She paused and blinked at Nightingale. “Please don't change the subject, Sir,” she said.
Nightingale waved a hoof. “Doors stay sealed,” he said. “What is a Scarecrow Festival? I've never heard of it.”
Agate gave a long-suffering sigh. She knew better by now than to expect he had dropped the matter. “You wouldn't have,” she said. “It's... unique to our village. Every year, on this night, the village and surrounding area is overrun with ghosts. It's... ponies say it's the day the world dies, so ghosts can pass over. A few years before I was born, somepony realized that if they left a Scarecrow out, the ghosts would take it, and leave their house alone. We...” She folded her hooves and snorted softly. “Well, Sir, some ponies like to make it into a bit of a party. I don't understand it myself, but I suppose we don't celebrate Nightmare Night. It seemed... well, like asking for trouble. So I suppose they just wanted something to celebrate.”
“Princess Luna does not...” Nightingale began, but trailed off as though he had become weary of speaking. He sighed. “Why do the ghosts take the Scarecrows?”
“Who knows?” Agate said. “They're ghosts. Who can say why they do anything?”
“Humm,” Nightingale said, a sound so deep and quiet that Agate felt it more than she heard it. “...You call them ghosts,” he said. “Ghosts are... ponies, yes?”
It was Agate's turn to lift a brow. “...Well,” she said, “I don't know that they're ghosts of anyy. But they do look like ponies... but so did the Forerunner.”
A gleam emerged in Nightingale's eye for just a moment, but quickly dimmed. “...Yes,” he said slowly. “Yes, I suppose. Still.” He breathed deeply and sighed. “You invite them to our home. You cannot be overly concerned.”
Agate shut her eyes tightly. They had made their way around once again. “I take precautions,” she said.
“Humm,” Nightingale replied.
“I'm just... trying to do what's in the interest of our safety, Sir,” Agate pressed.
“I do not need taking care of.”
Agate grimaced and walked around Nightingale to pick a book up off the back of the sofa. She might have disagreed, had he not been her employer. “Please, Sir, be sensible about this. Or at least sympathetic. You might not be afraid of what's out there, but I am. Not all of us are monsters.” She turned back to Nightingale and started violently.
Nightingale had turned to stare at her out of the corner of his eye. There was an intensity to his gaze, like an ice cube pressed against Agate's soul. It was not angry, or even annoyed. More than anything, Nightingale looked disappointed. Agate covered her mouth as she realized what she had said.
“I see,” Nightingale said.
“Oh no!” Agate said. She took a cautious step to Nightingale, lifting a hoof. “Sir, I'm sorry, I—“
“Agate,” Nightingale interrupted. His voice was soft, like a breeze through autumn leaves. “Please go.”
Agate lingered for a moment after Nightingale turned away from her. Neither made a sound. “I'm sorry,” Agate said. Nightingale did not reply. So Agate left, closing the door softly behind her. The last she saw of Nightingale he was staring out the darkened glass doors.
Agate breathed deeply. She told herself that it was not her fault that Nightingale was so stubborn, and that she had not meant to hurt his feelings. For that matter, she reminded herself that she was not certain she had done so. Nightingale so rarely emoted, it was impossible to tell what he was thinking. She told herself that perhaps he had simply seen her side of things, and had no more need for conversation. After all, a stallion like Nightingale must surely have thicker skin than that.
None of it helped.
Agate walked downstairs and began to draw the curtains for the night. In the fading light she could see the fog, already creeping its way up the coast. She estimated that a ghost would come for their Scarecrow in an hour at most. She checked the seals on all of the sliding doors one last time, as well as the locks on the doors, and put a kettle on. She hated being awake when the ghosts came, but it wasn't too much of a problem if she could be upstairs and in bed when it arrived.
So she took her tea and retired upstairs. She had acquired a book of summer poetry from the library, and delighted in reading passages that made her forget about the dreary weather and the gloom of specters. With the tea warming her belly and a thick quilt wrapped around her shoulders, she let time slip away.
Outside, fog crept around the house like a slow claw, tightening its grasp with each passing moment. It crept up the porch steps, climbed the walls and crawled across the rooftop. The fog peered through the windows, borrowing bony trees to tap upon the glass. It whispered sweet nothings to anypony who could heard. In the fog, upon the porch, the Scarecrow stirred.
Agate knew none of this. She was engrossed in a poem of transient love, where the in-between places of the heart were filled with romances as bright and temporary as a flash of fire. She sighed happily and sipped at her tea.
A slam echoed through the house, distant but undeniable. Agate sat bolt upright in bed, poetry forgotten. It had come from the kitchen. She slipped out of bed, covers wrapped around her shoulders to stave off the sudden chill, and slowly made her way to the door. “Sir?” she called, peeking her head out.
The hallway beyond was dark, and silent. She had dimmed the lights on her walk to bed, and even Nightingale's light had been snuffed out. The only illumination came from the moon, filtered through mist and funneled through the arched window behind her. The light faded in mere feet, leaving the hall to stretch infinitely into the inky blackness.
Nightingale's room was closer to the kitchen than hers; surely he had heard the noise. He did not answer, however. Agate moved as fast as she dared, feeling her way along the wall and looking all around her as she did. She had no idea what looking would do for her in such a darkness, nor even what she was looking for, but she wasn't taking any chances. She knocked sharply on Nightingale's door, looking over her shoulder.
The door drifted open, creaking on its hinges.
Agate peered inside. She half expected to see Nightingale there, still staring out the doors, but he was nowhere to be seen.
She walked inside, looking around. The books were left where she had stacked them on the coffee table. Nightingale's blanket was folded neatly on the sofa—neater than Agate had last seen it, in fact, and with his pillow placed very deliberately on top of it. His coat, however, was missing.
Agate chewed her lip, cursing under her breath. She lingered in the room for a moment longer, calling upon her heritage as the daughter of a sailor to add a few more choice oaths, then trotted back into the hallway.
A dark notion began to form in Agate's mind. She knew Nightingale to be many things, and believed him to be many things more, but surely he was no fool. Perhaps he had simply wandered into the kitchen and knocked something over by accident.
The lights had been doused downstairs, but that meant little. Silence reigned, but that too, meant little. Agate shivered and pulled her covers tighter around herself. She made a mental note to put a bell on Nightingale. “Sir?” she called out. “Is everything alright?”
There was no answer. Across the sitting room was the door to the kitchen. It was an inky abyss, somehow darker than the rest of the house despite the sliver of moonlight within. The moonlight gave Agate pause; she was certain she had closed the curtains tightly.
Agate became aware that she was very deliberately not walking towards the kitchen. She was standing at the foot of the stairs, barely even breathing. She scowled, chastising herself. She had lived in this house for years. Nothing but the ghosts came on the Scarecrow Festival, and as long as there was a Scarecrow out they never bothered the house. She set her shoulders and strode forward into the kitchen. “Sir!” she said sharply, throwing on the lights.
The kitchen was empty.
Agate sighed, sagging like a deflating balloon. The curtains on the door had come loose; the source of the moonlight. Steam still rose gently from the kettle. Agate crossed the kitchen and peered out the window, confirming her fears: She could see Nightingale's back, crossing the field beside the house as easily and casually as if he was taking a Sunday stroll. Further beyond him, rapidly disappearing into the gloom, there was another figure that Agate did not recognize. She squinted, straining her eyes to make it out. The figure was a pony, but its movements were strange. Awkward and unhindered, almost random, as though it had no bones.
A slice of moonlight pierced through the fog, illuminating the bright orange head of the figure. With a start Agate realized it was the Scarecrow, ambling like a spider towards the nearby forest. She stepped sharply away from the window, as though afraid the ghost within would feel her eyes upon it. She was clearly wrong about Nightingale. Nopony but a fool would willingly follow after that.
Agate took another step back. In spite of even the blanket around her, she felt desperately cold. What was Nightingale thinking? It was one thing to not be worried about ghosts, but it was another thing entirely to actually go out and follow one. What could he possibly hope to accomplish?
She leaned over the counter and held her hooves above the kettle. The steam drifting around them helped to alleviate the cold. Whatever the reason, she assured herself, Nightingale would be fine. He had been able to defeat a Forerunner. Well... Agate had helped. Nevertheless, he would be more than able to handle whatever it was he expected to happen. It was hardly her responsibility to try and stop his foolishness. There was no reason for her to put herself in danger just because he had done so.
She poured the hot water over her hooves. It had cooled enough that it was no longer scalding, but pleasantly hot. She ran it over one hoof, then the other.
Was he trying to prove a point? That he would be able to take care of himself even if the fog got in? That was hardly what Agate had worried about. Was he trying to prove he was not a monster? That could hardly be the case; Agate could not imagine how this was meant to prove anything. And yet... and yet, his expression still stung at her. She shook her head, chasing the thought away. She would apologize, in the sensible way, at the sensible time, when Nightingale was back safely. If he got back safely. He had made his choice, it wasn't her problem.
She splashed hot water over her face and grimaced. “Fine,” she said to nopony in particular. She scrubbed her face with a towel, wrapped her blanket tight around her shoulders, and stepped decisively away from the counter. “Fine!” she said again. She strode into the sitting room and glared at the lantern there. It hung from the stairs, exactly where she had left it, and flickered in a manner that was almost expectant. She took it up, wrapping the chain around her foreleg, and plunged through the sitting room, through the kitchen, and into the night.
In the mere minutes Agate had looked away the fog had thickened. It stood before her like a wall of cotton, dyed a dark and eerie blue by the light of the moon. Nightingale was nowhere to be seen—in fact, most things beyond the porch where nowhere to be seen. Agate payed it no heed, however. She nearly leapt off the porch, calling out after the master of the house.
The fog was cold as ice, and several times wetter. Agate's impromptu shawl was soaked through in a matter of moments. A deathly chill seeped through with them, clinging to her shoulders and working their way deeper inside with each passing minute. The grass beneath her was damp and muddy, coating her hooves in a thin film of grime. Agate was heedless, lifting the lantern above her head. “Sir!” she shouted into the mist. “Nightingale!”
No answer came, but Agate strode forward regardless. The light of the lantern, dim though it seemed, was remarkable at cutting through the fog. It seemed to fade away before her, like a crowd bowing before a king. She could already see the outline of trees in the distance, no more than twenty meters away. Nightingale had no doubt disappeared within already. As Agate walked closer, however, her pace slowed. There was a figure there, standing in a wide gap in the trees, but it couldn't have been Nightingale. Nightingale was built like a wall, with legs as thick as tree trunks and a barrel fully twice as wide as Agate. The figure in the fog stood on legs as thin as stilts, sleek and elegant in poise and build. It's neck, however, was grotesquely thick and long, rising the full height again of the figure.
Agate was struck by a powerful impression that the figure was staring at her, almost expectantly. She swallowed hard. It must have heard her calling, which meant it must have passed Nightingale to watch her, or have come in behind him. It was no risk, then. At least, no risk to Nightingale. Agate breathed deep and set her shoulders, resuming her stride.
The figure twisted sharply, its thick neck swaying at unnatural angles, as though it had no bones. Indeed, as the figure seemed to turn away from Agate its neck twisted back, head turned fully around to give her one last look, before bounding into the forest. When Agate arrived where it had stood moments before there was no evidence of the creature, not even a print in the mud. The only thing that remained were several tattered straws, which Agate considered quizzically as she passed.
The forest beyond was dark and claustrophobic, a dense brush of birch and aspen. The trees were white as bone, stretching from the misty carpet below and up to the thick canopy of fog above. Fortunately for Agate a path had been cut into the forest, a deep gulley between the wooden cliffs on either side. The floor was strewn with leaves in colours that, in the daylight, Agate would have found beautiful. Now, however, in the dark and obscured by fog they brought to Agate's mind images of viscera and of old blood. She shivered again, and it was not only the chill that caused it.
The fog, at the very least, was lighter here. The trees blocked it and choked it out, leaving only a light haze. Unfortunately a haze was enough, and Agate could not shake a creeping feeling of... something, in the forest with her. She looked over her shoulder, but saw nothing. Even the entrance to the woods has disappeared, swallowed by the winding path. On two sides, wood. On two sides, darkness.
Agate shook her head, brushing back a stray lock, and brandished the lantern. “...Bringing that stallion back,” she said aloud. She said it again, louder, as though challenging the forest to stop her. “I'm not leaving until I've found Nightingale Smiles, and convinced him to come back where it's safe!” she vowed.
Her ultimatum echoed in the emptiness of the forest. Then it was gone, leaving behind it a profound, all-encompassing silence. Agate lingered, and the longer she lingered the more she imagined she had gone deaf. A brief gust of wind whistled through the trees, reassuring her. She breathed deep, calming breaths and closed her eyes, focusing on the sound of the wind and the rustling of leaves on the ground, and the gentle creaked of the chain wrapped around her leg. She opened her eyes, calmed once more, and carried on.
There was still no sign of Nightingale, save for the heavy hoof-prints carved into the leaves. The gait matched his slow, ambling pace. If Agate kept up her pace, she knew, she would catch up with him before long.
She adjusted the quilt around her shoulders, letting it slack and droop away from her face. Still soggy, it did very little to keep out the cold, and there was little enough wind for it to shield. It dragged along the ground behind her like a train, covering the subtle sounds of the forest with a steady, leafy hiss. She had just begun to fuss with it when a flash of movement caught her eye.
Agate stopped so sharply the lantern rocked back and forth, the shadows it cast twisting and dancing. She cursed herself and stilled the lantern, gazing out once more into the trees. Beyond the treeline was a very different sort of darkness. It was a black that did not suggest emptiness, like that before and behind her, but rather guile. A subtle, inky slate that distorted when one turned their head to disguise what lay within.
Agate tried her best to stare it down, but she could barely look it in the eye. Heart thumping and sweat beginning to bead on her neck, she turned back to the road just in time to see something dart between the trees.
She gave a sharp yell and leapt back, tangling her hooves in her blanket and stumbling to the earth. She searched desperately, but saw no sign of her guest. Another breeze flowed through, sending a chill down her spine. She could swear she head laughter on the wind.
She paused. She had heard something. She strained her ears and caught another snippet upon the breeze.
...my love, you will arise
upon that day and wander down the air
obscurely as the unattended flower,
it mattering not...
Agate's heart leapt in her throat. Even on the wind she recognized that brassy, dusty timbre to be Nightingale's. She scrambled to her hooves and leapt after it, quilt forgotten. She would pick it up on their way home. It would just weight her down, now. She cantered after the voice, calling out, “Sir! Sir, it's me, Agate!”
The path curved in a tight bell, winding to avoid the crumbling ruins of some long forgotten structure. Before Agate was a river, crossed by an ancient-looking bridge, and in the distance another sharp turn. Beyond there, Agate was certain, she would finally see Nightingale. She could hear his voice now, even if she could not make out the words. His rich bass cut through the night, and even through Agate's ragged breathing. By the time she reached the turn she was completely out of breath, dry and gasping, but it didn't matter. If she could at least see Nightingale, she knew it would all be over soon. She turned the corner and lifted her lantern high, searching for the stallion.
What she saw instead was a ragged creature, long of limb and round of head. He shambled into the light of the lantern before Agate could even slow her stride. A Scarecrow!
The scarecrow, head made from an un-carved pumpkin, was dressed in what had once been somepony's Sunday Best. A dapper suit of faded blue, the garments had been worn down by time and use, fraying along the edges and riddled with holes, straws poked through his clothing at odd angles. It, combined with the shambling, boneless gait gave the creature a patchwork feel that sent a wash of panic over Agate. Not that she needed much help where panic was concerned. Had she not already been short of breath she would have screamed.
The scarecrow ambled towards Agate on awkward legs. Its legs moved wildly in front of it and its head bobbed and swayed with each step. It was clearly unused to its body. Despite this it moved with a astonishing speed; it was nearly upon her already. Agate summoned the last of her breath. “Nightingale!” she screamed.
Once again, there was no answer.
She turned on her heels to run. More scarecrows had appeared behind her, however, each one of them a shambling makeshift figure. Some were faceless, like the first, but others' heads were carved or painted into grins that did nothing to lessen their menace. In years passed, it had been considered tradition to give the scarecrow a happy face, as though it would inform the temperament of the spirit within. Somewhere in the back of her mind, Agate remarked upon the pointless hope of this.
She stepped back on trembling legs, trying futilely to distance herself from the approaching scarecrows. She knew, though, that there was only one place to run. As the pumpkin-headed scarecrow stepped within arms reach of Agate she spun around and leaped into the forest.
For the second time that night she ran with everything she had. Everything she had was greatly diminished this time, however, and she struggled to make her way through the underbrush. Thick bushes clung to her legs like bony hands. They clawed and pulled, threatening to drag her down with each step, but she pressed on.
She breathed in ragged gasps and splutters. The fog was thicker among the trees, so thick it felt like breathing soup. Her lungs burned and her legs cried out from exertion, but she pressed on.
She had lost all sense of direction. Trees stretched up around her, obscuring her vision in all directions. Their ghastly white streaked against the shadows of the night. There was no detail. There were no markers, but she pressed on.
Panic had infected her mind. She had no idea how much time had passed, how far she had gone. She could have been running for hours, or mere moments. She could be miles from the scarecrows, or one could be just around the next tree. She did not care. Her entire body bristled with a fear that flirted with madness. Creeping, weeping, primal terror. It whipped at her mind, but she could no longer press on.
Her legs finally gave out from beneath her. She collapsed against a tree, fighting for breath, and lifted her lantern to search for the scarecrows. They were nowhere to be seen. She breathed a sigh of relief as a weight lifted off her. Slowly, carefully, her mind let go of panic.
She would wait here for a time, she decided, and then return to the path. She didn't know what to do about Nightingale. The sensible thing, she supposed, would be to trust he could take care of himself. It would have been the sensible thing from the very beginning. She slid down the tree, resting the lantern on a solitary island of brown earth in a sea of fallen leaves. She felt so terribly tired, surely whatever the right course of action was it could wait a few moment. She leaned back against the tree, and let her eyes drift shut.
She felt oddly calm there, put at ease by the stillness and the silence. The mist swirled around her like a blanket, as soft and as downy as she had ever known. She felt like she had as a filly, huddled with her father and mother, protected. Her eyelids fluttered, and through blurred half-vision she saw a silhouette approach between the trees. Tall and thick-necked, yet thin-legged. Her mind steeped with sleep and ease, she could not open her eyes enough for a second look. “Nightingale?” she murmured.
“Agate!”
A sharp shake wrenched her back to wakefulness. Inches away from her face was another, eyes replaced by two pools of golden light. Agate screamed and swung the lantern wildly. It struck soundly on the side of the creature's face, but the creature barely moved.
“I see,” it said.
Agate blinked. “Nightingale?” She asked. Her heart leaped for a moment before she remembered herself. “That is, ah... Sir? Is that you?”
Nightingale stepped back, rubbing his nose. “Mm,” he said simply. “I apologize. I am not a pleasant face to wake up to. Are you alright?”
“I... yes, Sir,” she said. Had she slept? She had felt no time pass at all.
“I am glad,” he said. “I heard your scream.” He stood still for a moment. That his eyes were obscured by their glow made his expression no easier to read. “I... was worried,” he said finally.
There was something about his stance that made this simple admission somehow profound. His shoulders and neck were slack, and his ears drooped forward. A hint of a frown played at his mouth.
“I'm sorry, sir,” Agate said. “I followed you out to make sure you would be alright, but in the end...”
“No,” Nightingale said. “You needn't apologize. I should have considered your feelings when I left. I did not think... I am honoured to know you cared.”
An awkward silence passed between the two of them. “I... suppose,” Agate said slowly, “That we should get going, before the scarecrows come back?”
Nightingale blinked. “Agate.” he said simply. “The scarecrows found you in the forest. I confess...” he said, rubbing at his nose once more and flaring his nostrils, “my own senses are troubled by this fog. They lead me to you so I could carry you here.” He gestured to the side, and for the first time Agate took in their surroundings.
They were surrounded on all sides by worn and aged stone, no doubt the interior of the ruined building she had seen before. Judging from the heavy constructions left laying around, it had once been a lumber mill. That must have been some time ago, now. The wood was assaulted by dry rot, and any trace of metal had rusted pure red. The placed seemed to be held together by mildew and dead climbing vines.
Most everything was shoved to the sides to make room for the enormous fire pit in the center of the building. Surrounding the fire, numbering in the dozens, were scarecrows of every shape and size. They were dressed n ornate, if worn, clothing and in rags. They had heads made from pumpkins, carved or whole, heads made from painted buckets and heads made from sacks of leaves.
Agate gasped and shoved herself away from the fire. Nightingale sighed faintly.
A single scarecrow removed himself from the group and left the fireside. As he came closer, Agate realized it was the scarecrow she herself had made, though he seemed to have made some changes of his own. The sides of his shirt were split open, letting out longs tufts of hay, and he had carved his smile broader. “Now now,” the scarecrow said. His voice was hollow and rasping, as far-away as the light in Agate's lantern. He spoke with a pronounced acadian-fancee accent. “We're not gonna 'urt you. I'll tell you, it's been too long since we've 'ad living company at our little festival.” As he came closer his mouth distorted, smiling wider still. “Ca bien?”
“Oui,” Agate replied instinctively. “Oh, yes, I... hmm.” she slowly sat upright, unwinding the lantern from her leg.
The scarecrow laughed. “Oui!” he replied. “Did I 'ere right? Dis fellow calls you Agate?”
“Yes,” Agate said slowly. Bizarre as it seemed, something about this scarecrow struck her as familiar—and not simply because she had put it together. The scarecrow laughed again, and the straw poking out of his sides bristled like the pinfeathers of a pony she had once known. “Grand-pere?” she asked.
“Oui!” The scarecrow roared with laughter. “My little Agate! You 'ave grown so big!” His grin took on a cheeky quality and he leaned forward, patting her cheek. His 'hoof' was strangely warm. “But you are still so little! What brings you out in de fog? You were always such a careful fille!”
Agate peered over at Nightingale, who had moved to sit by the fire. “Oh,” she said slowly. “I was worried about Mr. Smiles...”
“Smiles?” her Grand-pere asked, looking over his shoulder at Nightingale. “Oui? Il'est Smiles? C'est bonne! De last was when I was jus' a colt, you know?”
In spite of the oddity of it all, Agate could not help but smile. “Yes, I know,” she said. “I remember your stories, Grand-pere.” She got to her hooves and, after a moment's awkwardness, put her hooves on his shoulders. “Grand-pere, is that really you?”
He laughed, bristling his wings once again. “As ver' real as dose special books you did not want your mere to see, eh?”
Agate blushed crimson. “Okay, that's enough,” she said sharply.
Her Grand-pere laughed harder and wrapped a leg around her shoulders. “Come, come,” he said, gesturing towards the fire. “I will explain to you.” He lead her to a log by the fire where they sat, her Grand-pere on one side of Agate and Nightingale on the other. He gestured to the crowd of scarecrows before them. “We are all,” he explained, “ghosts. Every last one of us was once a living, breathing pony, as you are.”
“In Canterlot,” Nightingale offered, “it is said that ghosts are the spirits of ponies who died unpleasant deaths, or have unfinished business.”
“Per'aps,” Agate's Grand-pere said. “Some of us 'ave 'ad nasty deaths. But I died peacefully in my sleep. Most of us died 'appy.” She shrugged. “De trut' is, we don' know why we are ghosts. We just are.”
“We think it's the Fog,” another scarecrow, a tallish thing holding a fiddle, put in. “That's where we are for most of the year.”
“It is only dis day dat de fog blows in far enough and long enough for us to come ashore,” Agate's Grand-pere said. “Most of the de time we drift, an' we talk, but dis is de only time we can...” He lifted a leg and gave it a shake. “Ghost don' feel,” he said.
“But scarecrows do?” Agate asked.
“Not as much as as a real body,” the fiddle-wielding scarecrow said. “But we do feel a little bit. The Fog, it seems, is good for more than just summoning ghosts.”
That made Agate shiver. Ghosts and spirits were bad enough, She didn't want to imagine the Fog doing something else on top of that.
“Whatever de cause,” her Grand-pere continued, “we take advantage. Since everypony is 'appy to leave de scarecrows around, we take dem an' come out 'ere.”
“A scarecrow festival,” Agate remarked.
“Oui!” Grand-pere agreed, beaming. “We come 'ere to feel de burn in our muscles as we dance, an' de warmth of de fire, an' to 'ear de music. Music!” he turned and addressed the crowd. “C'est bien, oui!”
A chorus of agreement sounded out, though it sounded more like a dusty echo than a cheer of any sort. Still, a palpable excitement rumbled through them.
Grand-pere laughed. “So you see?” he said. “Der is nothing to fear from us. Whatever else might live in dat fog, we only want our cheer. An' now we 'ave you and Monsieur Smiles to share it with, an' all are well, so more's de cheer!” He stood up, straw wings bristling with excitement, and clapped his straw-stuffed hooves. The scarecrow across from him grinned, no mean feat with a painted sack for a face, and launched into a tune.
It was a jaunty song, a sailor's tune that Agate remembered from when she was a young filly. The tune hopped and jumped, and the player bobbed with it, very nearly bouncing off of of his perch with enthusiasm. It was infectious, and before too long the scarecrows around him were hopping happily to the beat. A chorus sprung up, hooves stomped and clapped in time. Even Agate joined in, in spite of her misgivings of the assembly. Her hard hooves stood out rather starkly against the weak patting of straw upon straw.
It was not long before the first of the scarecrows stood up and moved to the center of the circle. They bowed to one another, grins spreading across each face as they readied an exchange that Agate could only guess must have been tradition. “Be three mare?” Asked one.
“After a year,” said the other, an unmistakably stallion-like quality to his voice, “I'm certainly willing to try it!”
The two leapt into the dance, perfectly in time with the beat. To and fro they span and leapt around the fire, joined shortly thereafter by more couples who did the same. In a matter of moments the fiddler was almost downed out by the clapping and the stomp of the dancers. So he played louder.
Agate bobbed in time with the music, still clapping along. She did not realize how much she had let herself get into the music until she swayed into Nightingale's shoulder. Agate staggered for a moment. The impact was like walking into a wall. “I'm sorry, Sir,” she said, looking over at him. “I—are you alright, Sir?”
“Hmm?” Nightingale asked, as though he had not felt the blow in the slightest. “Yes. Why do you ask?”
Agate hesitated for a moment. “W-well Sir,” she said, “it's just that you look...”
Nightingale was staring straight ahead at the fire. Here in the light the glow had departed from his eyes. His mane hung low and shaggy, shading them further, but Agate could still see the dullness in them. He barely held his posture, slouching his forelegs over knees. Solid as he was, he looked as though he might topple over at any moment.
“If I could say,” Agate said, “It's just that you look sad, Sir.”
“Hmm,” Nightingale said.
The jovial atmosphere seemed diminished, and not merely because of his dour mood. He seemed to suck the very cheer out of the air around him. To see a stallion so still in such a situation felt almost wrong. “Do you not like the music, Sir?” she pressed.
“It's beautiful,” he said. “H—I like it.” He blinked and slowly shook his head. “I apologize. There was something on my mind. I am being rude.”
“No, Sir,” Agate said, waving her hooves. “It's only that I was worried, on account of...” She looked down, and then back up. She found herself grappling with words, unsure of exactly what to say. “It's only you left so soon after what I said earlier, Sir.” she finally managed. “I... wanted to apologize for that. It was terrible of me, and I didn't... mean it poorly, but I still should have thought—“
Nightingale breathed out a long, heavy sigh. He lifted a hoof to rub at his neck, a glacial motion. “Agate,” he murmured, “What does the word 'Nocturne' mean to you?”
Agate blinked. “N-nothing, Sir,” she said.
“Nor I,” Nightingale said. “And yet, it is the name of me.” He smiled, although there was no humour in it. “A title for our tribe of two, my brother and I. Our mother gave it to us. There are in this world no more than one hundred ponies who will tell you they know what they word means. With you, seven creatures might claim to know one.”
Agate's jaw dropped. “O-only seven ponies?” she asked.
“Seven creatures,” Nightingale corrected. “Myself, my brother, our mother and two uncles, our employer, and you.
“A name means nothing. We are but two; what good is a name for us? A name cannot tell ponies what we are. Nor could it prepare them to understand us. Thus, we keep to ourselves.”
“That... must be lonely,” Agate said. She could only guess at how it must feel. Even living alone as she did—or had done, at least—she still saw ponies from the villages when she bought groceries.
“No,” Nightingale said. “Not typically. I am a solitary creature by my nature. It is my fortune. But sometimes... yes, sometimes I am lonely. It is difficult for me to relate to ponies. I spent more time among them, once. I even took a lover. Yet, when they looked at me—even him—I could see the fear in their eyes. I was not angry with them. I understood.” Nightingale closed his eyes. “I know what I am. I think my existence, to you, must perhaps seem tragic, but I do not resent what I am, and I do not resent being alone. I did not follow the scarecrows because of what you said, but to look for something. I thought that I might find... well. There are only more ponies. No matter. I apologize for frightening you.”
Agate did not know what to say. She had an inkling, however, and the more she stewed on it the more fully-formed it became. “No, Sir,” she said.
Nightingale peered sidelong at her, but did not speak. That suited Agate fine. “It was still wrong of me to treat you that way,” she said. “Can you truly tell me that what I said didn't hurt you at all?”
Nightingale seemed to hesitate, his typical silence long and so still that even the revelers around them slowed. “No,” he said finally. “I cannot.”
“Then please, Sir, accept my apology,” Agate said. “Because you aren't a monster, Sir, no more than our scarecrow friends. I was frightened of them as well, but only because I did not care to see them. I'm not afraid to say, sir, that if I had been a little less sensible and a little more clever, we might have saved ourselves some trouble this evening.”
A small smile played across Nightingale's lips, perhaps the warmest Agate had ever seen him. “Perhaps so,” he murmured. “Sensible solutions spill blood...”
Agate smiled in kind and placed a hoof upon his shoulder. “You've saved my life, Sir,” she said. “Twice now, even, and if things keep up, it may be more than that.” She laughed and rubbed her nose, adding, “But I hope it isn't, I'll tell you. You aren't a monster, Sir, and I am honoured to call you my master.”
Nightingale smiled wider. “Then, it is a title I am honoured to receive,” he replied. “Thank you, Agate.” He peered up at the revelers, too desperate in their quest for sensation to have noticed what occurred. “Equally, I would be honoured if we might dance?”
Agate's smiled widened. “I'm an awful dancer,” she warned.
“Good,” Nightingale replied. “So am I. But when in Cloudsdale, they tell me, one does as the Pegasi do.”
So they danced. They joined with the revelers in glorious celebration of nothing in particular, bounding and swaying to the fiddler's manic tune. They danced through the night, relishing in the warmth of the fire and the light of the stars that peeked through the crumbled ceiling. Strangely, Agate even relished in the mist that lingered around the hooves of the dancers.
She lost all sense of time, and in what seemed to Agate like hardly any time at all the sky began to pale. The first rays of dawn peered through the windows, and the fog thinned to a gauzy haze. The fiddlers music slowed, and with a final series of sharp, lingering strokes, the music came to a close. All at once the dancers bowed to one another, and the music was replaced with a great chorus of laughter and applause.
Agate's Grand-pere emerged once more from the crowd, clapping as furiously as his straw-filled limbs allowed him. “C'est belle!” he cried as he approached Agate, “And de music was fine too!” He laughed, clapping a hoof on Agate's shoulder. She wonder idly if this is how Nightingale had felt when she bumped him. “Agate, dear, you dance beautifully!” His smiled lessened, but turned warmer, and he wrapped her in a hug. It was a hug that Agate happily returned.
“Thank you, Grand-pere,” she said.
“Non, thank you!” her Grand-pere replied. “To see my grand-fils!” He stepped away from her and held her shoulders. “You grew up so beautiful, my dear.” The cheekiness returned to his grin. “Even if you do speak only Equestrian! It was wonderful to see you again.”
“And you, Grand-pere,” Agate said. She could not help but feel a pang of sadness, however. “Does this mean you have to go, now?”
“Oui,” her Grand-pere said sadly. “De fog goes to sea, and we go with it, I am afraid. But fear not!” he patted her cheek. “De world, she turns, an' in a year's time, she comes around again! We will be back next year, to dance and to drink and to feel the joy of life once more. And what greater joy dan to see my grand-fils, happy and brave and beautiful?”
Agate laughed. “I don't know about brave, Grand-pere,” she said. “I didn't exactly make a show of being brave in the woods.”
Her Grand-pere scoffed and waved dismissively. “You see any other villagers 'ere?” he asked. He waved again then, shooing the question out of the air unanswered. “You are very brave, Agate, and I am so very proud of you. Next year, you tell me all about yourself, oui?”
“Oui, Grand-pere,” Agate said. “Next year. But what happens this year?”
“This year, we take the warmth with us,” Agate's Grand-pere asked. He stepped away from her, his back to the flames, and declared to the gathered scarecrows, “De morning comes! If we cannot dance, I say at least we are warm until next year!” With a great hurrah, he leapt back into the pyre. Agate gasped, but her Grand-pere laughed. “Ah!” he exclaimed. “Warm at last!”
One by one the scarecrows approached the fire, throwing themselves into and laughing. They hugged one another as their bodies burned away. Mist leaked from them, stained blue and flecked with gold that sparkled and crackled as the wisps rose into the sky.
Soon there was a single scarecrow left. The fiddler, dressed in stained dockworker's denim and wooly flannel. His head was a lumpy sack of chaff painted with a grin that looked somehow melancholy. He approached Nightingale and held out his fiddle.
Nightingale took the fiddle, running a hoof over the smooth wood. “Thank you,” he said quietly.
“Play us something next year, sir.” the fiddler said. “Please be happy. There's more here than us. You might just find what you're looking for.”
Nightingale's eyes widened almost imperceptibly, and he bowed his head. “I... will do my best,” he said.
The fiddler nodded, and then he too submitted himself to the flames. He breathed out, a warm and happy sigh, and laughed. His mist poured out, flowing into the sky and taking his laughter with it.
Nightingale and Agate lingered for a time, taking in the scene. Where so much life and cheer had been just moments before, there remained only the burnt-out husk of a lumber mill and a dying pyre. It was oddly cold, even this close to the flames.
When she could no longer bear the silence Agate trotted past the log seats and collected her lantern. She stifled a yawn, and it only now occurred to her just how tired she was.
“Quite so,” Nightingale said as he plodded over to her. “It has been quite the night, I think. Shall we go?”
In spite of her weariness, and the lingering sense of loss, Agate smiled. “Yes, Sir,” she said. “And, ah... if I could just say, while we're walking back, we should keep an eye out for my quilt.”