Canterlot never did any of its architecture by halves. Its towers resembled porcelain that had been decked out with party streamers and confetti, arranged like a huddle of contestant cakes trying not to fall onto each other, prepared to get married to a rather swanky groom of a city, and then, as an afterthought, polished and dusted.
This corridor alone was merely a walkway to get from the main hall landing to a handful of doors, and yet every spring of the pony’s legs echoed from dozens of feet around until an army of bounces followed her lead. Stained glass shone down on her pink fur, casting on it depictions of sombre ponies dressed like a concentrated menagerie of tropical birds. Columns stood watch and cast shadows as best they could on the waving poofy mane, which occasionally brushed the brackets of bouquets wafting their floral scents over her. The red carpet was so rich and laced with gold accents that it made her pinkness look like a country hobo begging for colour tones.
Pinkie Pie stopped, just in the right position to face a wall of a door. A plaque on it read: Guild of Party Poppers. She checked her paper, nodded to herself with a giggle, and beat a rat-a-tat-tat on what looked and felt like ivory.
A gap opened with as much dignity as it could muster. Two half-closed eyes peered out of the shadow. “Yus?”
“Yes!” Pinkie jumped at her own call.
A drawn-out general blink followed her echoes, and then a drawn-out colonel blink followed the silence. “Pardon?”
“I say yes! I wanna join your guild!” said Pinkie with a smile. “Pinkie Pie’s the name, and partying’s my game. Happy ‘Yay-A-New-Member-Is-Joining-Day’ Cake free of charge! My card.”
Two half-closed eyes blinked with as much gravitas as could make mere gravity look indecent. It peered at the pop-up card warmly congratulating it on becoming a new friend. It peered at the smile shining in its face. Finally, and with much aplomb, it peered at the outside of the door.
The hidden pony swore and rubbed at the lettering.
“Darn vandals been at our sign again. Next door down,” it muttered. The ivory slammed and nearly took the frame off.
The door now said: Guild of Party Poopers.
Pinkie sighed and pushed the card under the door. There was no helping some ponies, but then again every little helped. The words “Cognitive Dissonance” had never crossed her path, and if they had, she’d have said it was a good name for a band. She had a second card anyway, just in case.
After several minutes of empty corridor had failed to crush her spirit, she rubbed at a dead ringer for the second door before knocking. To her surprise, someone knocked back.
“Come in,” she said.
The door opened and a chuckle with a pony attached frogmarched herself out of the light beyond the frame.
“I’m sorry I’m late,” she said in-between stifled and not-so-stifled giggles. “I had all sorts of things trotting up” – she broke off into a fit of hysterics and then slapped her own face – “trotting up at the last moment. I hope I find you well, Miss, er…”
“Call me Pinkie Pie!” The second card was offered without delay.
“Why? Is that your name?”
“I’m rather attached to it, yes.”
“Oh, I’m sorry to hear that. My mother had a name attached to her once. Followed her everywhere she went, and she couldn’t get rid of the thing. Is there anything I can do to help?”
“Yes there is! Just say my name when you speak to me, and when you’re done, it’ll be gone!”
“You’re sure?”
“Positive!”
“OK. Ahem. Pinkie Pie.”
They both stood staring at each other, mouths slightly open and ears cocked as the echo faded away. From beyond the doorway, someone coughed.
“My word,” said the mare. “It is gone. I can’t hear it anymore.”
“Told you, didn’t I?”
“It’s a miracle! You must be extraordinary.”
“Ooh, can that be my new name?”
“Certainly, Miss Extraordinary. But where are my manners? Come in, come in. Warm yourself by the drinks fridge. Come in.”
Pinkie entered the light and was heralded by a cellist’s strings. Streamers criss-crossed the roof and wrapped themselves around banners, a city of cakes stood on the port side of the long tables opposite, and ponies, balloons, sparklers, punch bowls, puppet shows, arcade games, and an inflatable swimming pool danced and clambered or were carried over each other. Whatever Canterlot there was to the hall was buried: on the chandeliers overhead, a pony in a rainbow patchwork suit was trying to play golf with a water pistol and a bean bag. A few intrepid explorers were climbing the columns with bed quilts as ropes, and a pegasus with a paint brush was putting exquisitely curled moustaches on the less-than-approving stained glass figures.
On the stage to the far end, the lone cellist was playing without sheet music. Her face was that of a pony barely convincing herself that the pay-check was worth a few hours of nightmares, and in the meantime wondering how much sanity she had left.
“What’s everyone celebrating?” said Pinkie as she glanced around. “Is it someone’s birthday? A graduation? Did someone win the Canterlot Old Biddies’ Prize Draw?”
“This way please, Miss Extraordinary. We have the most amazing opportunity ahead of us.” The mare gave her a raised eyebrow and a half-expectant gape. “What do you mean what’s everyone celebrating?”
“The occasion!” Pinkie hopped after her, vaulting over any ponies in her way. “What’s everyone celebrating? What’s the occasion?”
The mare continued to stare at her as though she had asked what the point of breathing was. “Where are you from, did you say?”
“I didn’t, but if you’re asking now – sorry” – she grinned apologetically at a stallion whose drink she’d knocked and spilled onto the red carpet – “then I’m from Ponyville with a P.”
“Well, it’s just as well you came to us. They clearly have some very funny ideas about parties in Ponyville with a P. You need to distinguish yourself from the party poopers if you want to stay in this guild.”
Pinkie, who had fetched a second glass of punch from the nearest table, zipped over to the archway where the mare was heading. The mare stood outside it and turned to look over the chaos. After a while, Pinkie figured she was supposed to do the same.
“I drew on the Party Poopers’ entrance so everyone’d think they were us,” said the mare with a suppressed chuckle. “It always annoys them.”
“Oh, I just came from there,” said Pinkie. “They didn’t seem very happy.”
“Then all is right in the world. Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Right Hoof.”
“Hello, Right Hoof!”
“Hello, yes, and I am Left Hoof.”
The impromptu golfer sent the bean bag soaring in a graceless arc, which ended on the back of the moustache-painter’s head and splashed into the punch bowl. Several cheers greeted this, and a few ponies held the bowl aloft like a trophy to pass around and kiss. It was around this point that the last few words oozed into Pinkie’s consciousness.
“I thought your name was Right Hoof?” she asked.
“That’s right. My name is Right Hoof, and I am Left Hoof. In a moment, I’m about to introduce you to Front Hoof, and this stallion coming to greet us is Back Hoof.”
“And who’s this other stallion?” said Pinkie.
“That’s Clarence. Come on, then. Just step through this archway.”
They entered an adjoining hall, which didn’t echo so much as the previous hall had done and there was just the one pony in the centre with a table. Pinkie and the mare homed in on her, and the flanking stallions passed them and took seats either side of the elderly mare, who was peering over her pinprick spectacles at a paper. At least, it was presumably paper; Pinkie rarely came across a kaleidoscope made solid.
“Hello, Front Hoof!” said Pinkie. “Watcha reading?”
“Ah!” Front Hoof snapped out of her trance and straightened her glasses again to peer at the newcomer. “They come in pink flavour now.”
“Do they?” said Pinkie politely.
The old mare straightened her glasses; somehow, they had flicked themselves askew, though the mare hadn’t moved an inch. Back Hoof and Clarence reached under the table and placed two maracas and a box of paints either side of the kaleidoscope paper. Pinkie peered closer. The writing on the sheet would need a magnifying glass to read, or at least an ant and an interpreter.
“Miss Pinkie Pie,” said the trembling Front Hoof. “I am honoured, but why are you here?”
“One of the hard ones first, I see,” said Pinkie gleefully. “Give me two hours with a philosophy book.”
“I mean, why are you at the guild? Only members can take part in guild business, you know. We have certain rules. I think we have rules, anyway.” She turned to Left Hoof, name being Right Hoof. “We do have the rules, don’t we?”
“Just beneath you,” said Left Hoof, name being Right Hoof.
“Ah. So the rules are beneath me, are they? Well, that would explain a lot.” Front Hoof peered at the desk in front of her. “Oh yes, what a coincidence. I was just talking about them.”
“Party rules?” said Pinkie. “No sweat! Why, I practically wrote the rules on partying.”
“Did you?” Front Hoof peered at the desk again. “Well, I don’t see how these can be your rules. I don’t see your name on them anywhere.”
“What? That can’t be right! Let me take a look at that.”
Pinkie reached into her own mane and clicked the Biro that came out. She accepted the paper from the old mare and hummed to herself, half-chewing the end of the pen.
“Uh huh… Uh huh… Well, this is the spot where it should be…” She scribbled something at the bottom. “Aha! There it is. See for yourself.”
She handed it back, and Front Hoof laid it out below her. All four guild ponies leaned forwards to read it.
“Egad!” Left Hoof, name being Right Hoof, stabbed the paper with her hoof. “She’s right. Look, there it is! As clear as day!”
All four gasped with alarm. Pinkie shoved the Biro back into her locks and grinned at them.
“My goodness, so it is,” said Front Hoof. “Er, I beg your pardon, Miss Pinkie Pie. I don’t know how I missed that before. Um.”
“Ah, don’t make a huffin’ out of nothin’. Now you can tell me,” said Pinkie, “what I’m doing here. Besides standing and talking, of course.”
Front Hoof straightened her glasses again and tapped the table. “Very well. We sent you a letter, didn’t we?”
The letter in question bounced on the table and smothered the rules. “Here it is!”
“Would you read it out for me, please?” said Front Hoof. “I’m afraid my ears aren’t what they used to be.”
Pinkie nodded graciously and spread out the letter. She cleared her throat. The ponies cocked their ears and rubbed their hooves together; they could tell this was going to be good.
“Ahem,” Pinkie said, and she exercised her jaw muscles. “Doh ray mi, doh ray mi, she sells sea shells on the sea shore… OK. Let’s see. It says, ‘To whom it may concern, i.e. you. Please come to the Guild of Party Poppers and claim your prize. This is an urgent message concerning the future of partydom. Please dress accordingly.’ There’s also some stuff about a treasure island, but I want to read that bit while wearing a pirate costume. I think it could work. Can I go get one?”
“Silence, please,” said Left Hoof, name being Right Hoof. She stood before Pinkie and lowered the letter with a hoof. “You have been chosen from hundreds of ponies, each of them the cream of the crop from the best of the best of the top of their class, for a very important mission.”
“Do I get to dress up as a pirate?”
“Only as a last resort.”
“There’s a resort?”
Front Hoof took a steadying breath, pausing only to adjust her glasses again. She glanced left. She glanced right. She glanced back at Pinkie, cupped her mouth in a secretive manner, and whispered: “Have you ever heard of the Lost Gold Trifle?”
A hush descended upon the room. For a moment, it seemed that the party next hall had suddenly ceased to be. Darkness hung heavy where the stained glass rays failed to dispel it. Four ponies were as still as award-winning musical statues. Eyes narrowed to slits all around her. Pinkie tilted her head.
“No,” she said. “What singles did they release?”
“They didn’t release any singles!” shouted Left Hoof, name being Right Hoof.
“Well, no wonder I’ve never heard of them. What kind of band are these guys?”
“It’s not a band,” Front Hoof said. “It’s… well, I’ll let the archivist explain.”
She signalled to Clarence, who nodded with all the solemnity of a priest watching over a dying child, and he stepped forth into the light of the windows, overlooked by the great saints of yonder.
“Ooooooh,” he moaned in awe. “Ooooooh.”
He stopped to peer at a card under his hoof, nodded, and continued. All the ponies around him held their breaths.
“Oooooooh. The Lost Gold Trifle is a lost treasure. A golden treasure. A lost golden treasure from an age whence not a single soul knows not wot of. Ooooooh.”
Back Hoof belched.
“Sorry,” he added to Clarence’s death glare. “I had burritos for lunch.”
“We’ll talk later. Now… Ooooooh. Forged in the fires at the birth of the land of friendship and maaaaaaaaaagic. Melted from the purest of metals by the most skilled metallurgists of the aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaay-age. Cast in the shape of that most holy of holiest puddings, the humble and most fruity triiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiifle. Ooooooh.”
Pinkie raised her hoof. When Clarence ignored her, she jumped up and down on the spot.
“It was her most noble Chancellor,” he crooned, “the great Chancellor Puddingheeeeeeeeeeaaaaaaaaaaad, who, when she was about to die, told her friend and confidante, the most beloved and holy saint of sweets, the great Smart Cooooooookie, to take all of her love of the party, and her soul, and her fire, and to put it in the ultimate tribuuuuuuuuuuuute. This, then, is the tale of the Lost Gold Trifle of Chancellor Puddingheeeeeeeaaaaaaaad, object of myth and reverence among the Sacred Devotees of the Shindig yes what is it?”
“I played Puddinghead in a play once,” Pinkie said happily.
“Yes, very good, now –”
“It was on Hearth’s Warming Eve,” she added helpfully.
“As I was SAYIN’; Ooooooh. The Lost Gold Trifle of Chancellor Pudding –”
“I don’t remember any pirates in it, though.”
“Oh, for Pete’s SAKE!” yelled Clarence, and he stormed out.
Front Hoof shook her head sadly at a distant slam. “Highly strung, that one. Now, I hope you see the severity of our predicament, Miss Pinkie Pie?”
Pinkie shrugged. Left Hoof, name being Right Hoof, stood in Clarence’s place.
“That Lost Gold Trifle,” she said, “represents the very raison d’etre of the Guild of Party Poppers. It is a priceless historical artefact. To have it in our collection would be the crowning glory of our organization.”
“You mean it’ll make you happy if you can get it?” said Pinkie frowning. She was wondering what this had to do with raisins, d’etre or not.
“Happy?” said Front Hoof. “It would make us proud, confident, contented, and self-righteous. I suppose you could add happy to that list. Now, will you do it?”
The benevolent smile of a stained glass Smart Cookie peered into the archway, from which came the squeak of balloon abuse. Someone cheered. The cellist strained to be heard over the riot of stamping hooves. Pinkie saw Left Hoof, name being Right Hoof, swap a nervous glance with Back Hoof’s for his worried grimace.
Pinkie took a deep breath. Every pony leaned forwards.
“I’ll do it,” she said. “Pinkie Promise.”
Cheers met these words. Left Hoof, name being Right Hoof, patted her on the back and gave her a party hat. Back Hoof extracted a fizzy pop bottle and uncorked it, spewing the foam all over them. Glasses were shared out, and a beatbox materialized from nowhere and stirred them into a conga line, from which Front Hoof excused herself on account of her rheumatism.
After downing some fizzy gulps and gambolling around the hall through sheer excitement, Pinkie turned to the other ponies and said: “So what is it I’m doing, exactly?”