Spring Chapter 7
Another Song to Sing
What woke George up was, as per usual, a pounding headache. However, instead of its cause being copious amounts of alcohol consumed the previous night, the reason was much more physical this time. Groaning in pain, George reached to the back of his head with his hand, only to feel oddly slimy and wet part that made his heart jump.
Despite the pain, he forced his eyes open and brought his hand in front of his face. Even in the dark of the forest, he could see clearly that he hadn’t guessed wrong: his hand was covered in the one red substance he hated to see.
— Blood.
“I’d… say it was worth it…” George grumbled, his voice sounding hoarse. “But I’d be lying. Damn that smarts…!”
Pushing himself up from the moss-filled forest floor, George couldn’t help but to rub the back of his head again. He knew that he had been busted up pretty badly by the stone, judging from the amount of blood that covered his hand. Unfortunately, he had never been someone with enough patience to not scratch his scars. Moment’s satisfaction was preferable to a long-time goal.
Glancing around, George was somewhat surprised to find himself completely alone. Considering he hadn’t run that long of a distance into the forest, he had expected the ponies to have him surrounded at this point. Instead, all he could see were the shadows covering the foliage, and the occasional beam of moonlight that managed to seep through the treetops. The whole forest seemed to be draped in darkness, making it hard to see even five feet ahead.
“Maybe they couldn’t find me…” George muttered as he slowly got to his feet. “Or maybe this forest’s some sort of taboo for them. Yeah, that sounds about right. Stumbling straight into cursed woods on my second day…”
Letting out a frustrated groan, George once again took a look at his hand. Now that he had gotten back his bearings to some extent, he could see that the blood in his hands was mostly darkened and somewhat stiff. That was good news, at the very least. The flow had dried up, and hopefully, it wouldn’t start again even if he moved. Still, the wet spot at the back of his head felt rather disgusting. It took all his concentration not to get right down to scratching it.
“Where am I, anyways?” George continued muttering as he scanned his surroundings. “It’s been a while since I’ve seen a forest this… feral. Just look at these trees. I can’t practically see the sky at all.”
Moss covered the large tree trunks and vines seemed to stretch between the plants, creating a webbing that veiled even the undergrowth. Plants unknown to George swayed in the nightly breeze, and out in the distance, an owl let out its familiar cry. The only colors that entered George’s vision were green, brown and black. It was like a uniform the woods had donned.
“At least I know where to get lumber when I start fixing up Faraway Farm,” George said and chuckled dryly, knocking the trunk of the tree near him. It let out an odd, hollow sound. “Strong wood and it’s quite close to the town, so I should… wait, what?”
He knocked the trunk again, and once more, the hollow knell of wood answered. It was a sound unlike anything George had heard before. His eyes narrowed as he stepped away from the trunk, just now noticing the odd its color was. Under the moonlight, the weathered hue was not easily noticeable, but if one strained their eyes, it could still be recognized. For some reason… the tree’s bark was faded blue.
George’s eyes climbed higher and higher, trying to see the branches and the leaves of this odd, hollow tree. However, he only found the trunk continuing, forming into an odd mass that connected to another tree, and climbing even higher from there. It took a moment for George to realize just what he was staring at. The dark shape blended into the night-time forest perfectly, and if he had not seen the shadow it cast before falling unconscious, George wasn’t sure if he had pieced the clues together so fast.
Still, the sight sent a freezing chill down his spine. The odd foreboding feeling clutching his chest was even worse than when he realized he was in another world. After all, what he stared right now in the deep forest… was something he recognized.
“Paul… Bunyan…” George whispered in awe.
He wasn’t mistaken. Even in the darkness of the forest the old statue hadn’t lost any of its grandeur. Standing almost ten meter tall, it barely hid within the forest, its head reaching all the way up to the treetops. In its right hand it held a gigantic axe that seemed to gleam in the moonlight. The eyes of the colossal statue stared into the nothingness, and the empty smile of the larger-than-life lumberjack made George shiver.
“What… but how!?” George asked aloud, unable to comprehend what he was seeing. “Y-you’re a statue of a human! Not something native to this world! I’ve seen your images on the roadsides! You’re… you’re definitely the Paul Bunyan I’ve seen on Earth!”
George’s brains were running like a racehorse. The farm he could still somewhat understand. Maybe it was some sort of hotspot between worlds, or maybe it existed between dimensions. There had to be some sort of explanation for that. But this…? This wooden statue that had been beaten down by weather and years, clearly showing it had been sitting here in the middle of the forest for at least decades? It was impossible. Sheer absurdity. There was no reason for a statue of Paul Bunyan to be in the middle of a forest in this strange, surreal world of colorful, talking ponies.
A crunching sound filled George’s ears as he grinded his teeth together. Despite the pounding pain in his head, or perhaps just because of it, his hands clenched into fists. Anger flared up in his eyes as he stared at the empty smile of the giant, unable to take the sight anymore.
“Why!?”
Letting out a yell of impotent rage, George swung his fist as hard as he could, punching the statue in its leg. Of course, he did not achieve more than hurting his hand, but that didn’t stop him. Instead, he swung again, and again, until he was laying a beat down on the wooden surface. Slowly but surely, he chipped away the blue-painted wood. It was need born out of desperation, the desire to hurt something, anything, because of his current situation.
—And this inexplicable statue had given him the perfect target.
“You have to know something!” George roared, ignoring his pain with pure stubbornness. “You can’t be here just because! There has to be a reason! Somebody built you! Somebody who knew what humans looked like! Or, someone who was a human!”
Pain stung the bloodied knuckles, but George did not care. Instead, he quickened his pace, embedding more and more splinters into his skin in the process. But no matter how painful it got, it seemed to only elevate his anger. The bottled up emotions that had been held at bay by the presence of other, intelligent creatures now came gushing forward. The pain of being ripped out of one’s world, the loneliness of not belonging, the anger stemming from homesickness… it was all there.
It was that rattlesnake with bloodshot eyes, coiling around George’s heart.
“You bastard! Tell me! What the hell is going on here!?” George screamed at the lifeless statue. “Why am I here!? Why me!? Why do I have to save some goddamn farm in another world!? I didn’t do anything wrong!”
Finally, a punch embedded itself deep into the wooden surface of the statue’s leg. George, breathing ragged and heavy, looked down on his shaking fists, only to find them bleeding badly. His anger was gone, but instead, he now felt a hollow hole inside him. Even in his greatest bout of drunken rage, George had not felt like this. This wasn’t something that would simply go away, not as long as he remained in this world. He could keep it hidden, he could fake it till he made it, but as long as he was unjustly imprisoned in this dimension, that rattlesnake in his chest would continue to bare its fangs.
“I didn’t do anything wrong…” George whispered, finding it hard to catch his breath. He leaned his head against the cold, wooden surface of the statue’s legs, trying to calm himself down.
Even to his own ears, his words sounded empty.
No matter how he had raged, the empty eyes of the statue gave him no answers. It simply left him feeling tired and lonely, clawing at the walls of this pit he had been thrust into. More questions had risen, but there were no solutions in sight. Just a statue that reminded him of everything he had lost.
George fought back the tears that welled up in his eyes. He bit his teeth together with enough force to break them, but to no avail. Before he knew it, salty drops of frustration fell to the mossy ground, as if to mock him.
“Goddammit… I didn’t do anything wrong…” George muttered, his shoulders shaking. “I didn’t do anything wrong…”
He knew that this was not the end. He would still survive. If what he had guessed was right, by the time the morning came, he would return to his four-legged form, and could head back to the farm. However, even if that did not happen, he could still find a way. Just like he always had. But right now, George simply could not care. He felt spent, like he had been beaten up and tossed down. The burst of anger he had felt had left him simply… hollow. Right now, George only wanted to stay silent and not face any of the problems he might have waiting for him.
He would carry on. Just like the wayward son he was. However, even George did not know if there was a peace waiting for him when he would be done. The only thing he wanted to do was to lay his weary head to rest…
… And not to cry anymore.
◊◊◊—Harvest Seasons: Spring—◊◊◊
Eventually, morning came to Ponyville, as well as the Faraway Farm. And along with the light that slowly enveloped the decrepit farmstead came George Sparrow. He dragged his feet, still feeling unbelievably tired, but at least this time, he wasn’t just dragging two legs. He was dragging four.
Just like he had anticipated, by the time the sunlight slid through the treetops into the overgrown forest, the lurching feeling in his stomach returned. Just a sinking feeling in his bones, and he suddenly found himself once again looking like a freaky little toy horse with useless wings.
Thus, here he was: trudging down the road that led to the half-ruined farmstead that he was now saddled with. The sand beneath his hooves stung, but at least he wasn’t suffering from his wounds anymore. For some reason, they had all healed after his transformation was finished. However, at the time, George had been too spent to even think about the implications behind that. Instead, he was simply glad that he could finally get out of the forest and leave the mysterious statue behind him.
As he approached the Faraway Farm, he could see all the old, familiar signs. He saw the oil drum that he had bathed in. He saw the tilted grain silos that seemed ready to topple over, if not for the support of each other. He saw the big hole that was in the roof of the main building, just screaming to be fixed before the next torrential rain. Everything his eyes took in was bathed in the golden light of the morning sun… and yet, he felt nothing as he gazed the sight.
What finally made his heart jump, though, was the quiet sound of harmonica that flowed from the farmstead.
To his amazement, George saw a sight on the porch of the main house that he had not expected: Apple Cobbler was sitting on the old wooden bench, leaning her back against the wall like she had been a human. Gone was her heavy travel-cloak, and instead, she was wearing a wide-brimmed, brown hat with a large feather on it. In her hooves was a shiny, silver harmonica. The melody that echoed in the silence was coming from that very instrument.
George couldn’t help it. A tired smile spread to his face.
After making a small detour to his backpack which was still lying in the grass, George headed to the porch himself. Apple Cobbler greeted him with a silent nod, keeping her lips still glued to the harmonica. The song did not stop when George sat down next to her, nor when he brought out his pack of cigarettes and a lighter. After a minor scuffle, he got one cigarette to his lips, and even managed to light it up. Using his wings, he took a drag out of the cylinder and blew out a gentle cloud of smoke in the morning air.
“Rough night, was it?” Apple Cobbler suddenly asked, halting the melody of the harmonica.
“Yeah, you could say that,” George answered bluntly.
“I hear ‘twas some monster that rampaged in the town last night. I hope you did not get caught up in the midst of it?” the mare continued, arching an eyebrow.
George felt a pang of panic in his heart. Had Cobbler figured out what had happened? She was devilishly quick-witted, after all. It wouldn’t take her long to put two and two together.
“Many monsters do exist in the woods surrounding Ponyville, after all,” Apple Cobbler said, breaking the silence again. “It would be a shame if you were scared by one of them on your second day here.”
It felt as if a great weight had been lifted from George’s shoulders. Judging from Apple Cobbler’s expression, the orange mare had not realized his connection to the “monster” business after all. Instead she most likely presumed he had managed to get himself in trouble with some local wildlife.
“Well, I’m not totally sure,” George finally answered, taking another drag from his cigarette. “I did get chased by that… erm, monster. I managed to get away, but found myself in the woods. Took me this long to get back.”
His lie wasn’t too pretty, but it had no need to be. Coming up with overly complicated reasons as to why he had just disappeared would have made Apple Cobbler just suspect him more. Instead, the best option was to keep his story short and sweet. That way he would have to add details only when someone interrogated him.
“I see. ‘Tis fortunate, then, that you survived,” Cobbler said and chuckled. “Everfree Forest is not kind to the uninitiated.”
“Someday you’ll have to tell me about these weird places, you know?” George commented. “Otherwise I’ll get myself killed trying to put up a still in the wrong place.”
“I’ll be sure to teach you the basics of Ponyville’s oddities,” Cobbler answered with a sly smile. Then she gave a slightly confused glance at his cigarette. “And speaking of which… what, pray tell, do you have on your lips?”
“Peace.”
George’s answer was more like a grunt. He was far too tired to start discussing the details and hazards of smoking with a candy-colored horse right now. Luckily Apple Cobbler seemed to sense it, as she nodded understandingly, and lifted her harmonica back to her mouth.
“I see. Peace it is,” she answered.
Once again, the lilting, tranquil melody of the silvery instrument filled the farmstead. Its wail was pacifying to listen, and even George found himself oddly at peace. His outburst in the forest had left him tired, but now that same feeling was being transformed into something else. Sure, he was still exhausted… but at least he didn’t simply want to bury himself in some hole. Instead, he was perfectly content just sitting at the porch next to Apple Cobbler, listening to the tune of her harmonica.
As he listened, George’s eyes wandered around the farmstead spreading out in front of him. The fields were still feral, and would need lots of work before he could even use them. The outbuildings and sheds would need to be fixed before he could even think about storing anything in them. The cowshed was probably caked in dried up, ancient dung. Not to mention there was still the huge hole in the roof of the main building.
However, for the first time since arriving to this strange new world, George felt like the task ahead of him was not impossible. Sure enough, it would take a lot of work. But listening to the calm song of the harmonica, he felt that his goals were, at least for the moment, within reach; for better or for worse.
“You know… I’m not happy to be here,” George suddenly said, cigarette burning slowly on his lips. “To be honest, I’m rather sick of this place, and I’ve been here only for, what, two days? The town and the… ponies… are far too much of a hassle for me to care about, and this decrepit farmstead is just asking for demolition crew to attack it. I dread to think about how long it’s gonna take to renovate all of this, and I’m not even sure if I can make it all work. Earning money is just a dream, really. In other words, even if I signed up for this farming business, I can find no motivation for it at all.”
Apple Cobbler kept playing her harmonica, but her eyes were now locked on George. He took another drag from his cigarette, and watched the wisps of smoke disappeared up into the sky.
“But… I’ll still do it,” he finally said. “Not because I want to, but I because I have to. I’m stuck with this farm, and thus, I’ll do my best to get it up and running. I ain’t got any big plans or stuff to look forward to… so might just as well make use of the time I’ve got, and do what I can for this place. Who knows, maybe I’ll even succeed by some odd stroke of luck?”
After he finished his little speech, George was surprised to hear Apple Cobbler’s husky laugh. He would have expected the mare to either make some sarcastic quip or simply roll her eyes, but instead, she seemed genuinely amused. Cobbler looked at him once again, little smile on her lips.
“Spoken like a true farmer,” she finally said.
“Wait, what?” George’s eyebrows reached for his maneline. “Really?”
“Of course,” Apple Cobbler answered. “There exists no farmer in this wide, wide world of Equestria whom could say they wake each morning with nothing but joy of hard work in their hearts. Anypony working on a farmstead will have days when they feel down, or simply find no motivation to go on, as ‘twere. And yet, they do. Do you know why?”
George shrugged his shoulders, or at least tried to. Ponies had very little when it came to shoulder department.
“’Tis because farming is their way of life. It may not be always fun or glamorous, but there is more to it than work,” she replied. “Being a farmer means choosing a very particular way to live. Hard work that may not always pay off, bouts of bad luck that ruin your year, being at the mercy of weather and markets… If you were to judge it solely by the facts, being a farmer would be the worst career choice you could have. However, ponies still choose to become farmers. ‘Tis because being a farmer is not a matter of this…”
Apple Cobbler softly tapped George’s head.
“But this,” she concluded, pointing at where George’s heart was.
“You know, that sounds incredibly lame,” George answered, but couldn’t help the grin that rose to his face. “Still… I suppose it does make sense. It’s a harsh way to live, but someone’s gotta do it. Might as well be me. I never liked office-work, anyhow.”
“And ‘tis about ruining heartfelt moments by being blockheaded,” Cobbler continued, showing her usual Cheshire Cat grin. “Believe me, Gorge Sparrow. I do think you shall fit in Ponyville just fine.”
“I think the only place I want to fit at the moment is my bed,” George said, stumping his cigarette to the wooden surface of the bench. “I didn’t manage to catch a wink of sleep last night, and I’m ready to crash. You don’t mind if I take this day off, do you?”
“Go ahead,” Cobbler said and chuckled. “We can begin in earnest tomorrow.”
“Gotcha.”
George stood up from the bench and stretched his limbs. As awkward as the four legs (not to mention the wings) were, he was slowly but surely starting to get used to them. Sure, actions requiring fine motor skills were still beyond his reach, but with enough time, he was sure he’d be able to get a hang of those, too.
“All right. I’ll see ya later, Cobbler,” George said, heading to the front door. “Tomorrow’s when we start this damn farmer life.”
Apple Cobbler laughed at his words as he disappeared behind the door. George did not care that as things stood, he’d have to sleep in one of the old beds of the house. Anything with soft enough mattress was sounding good right about now. It also helped that after a while, he could once again hear the melody of Cobbler’s harmonica. This time, the tune had slightly shifted. It sounded almost like a lullaby to his ears.
Thus, by the time he found a promising-looking bed in one of the side-rooms, George was just about ready to fall asleep. Thanks to the physical and mental exhaustion experienced that day, he didn’t even have to pull a blanket over his quadruped body before sleep assaulted him like a trained anti-terrorist unit. Just a few minutes, and soft snoring could be heard coming from the room, only broken by occasional mumbled curse. Then there was nothing more than the soft sound of the harmonica that echoed in the house.
— However, only fifteen minutes later, that same melody came to a halt.
If George had been awake at that time, he might have noticed how Apple Cobbler put away her instrument and straightened her hat, jumping down from the bench she had been sitting on. He could have also witnessed how the mare, slowly but decisively, headed out to the yard, eyes glued to the large thicket of stinging nettle that was growing at its corner. He might have wondered why she stopped at the edge of said thicket, looking around like she was scanning the environment for possible witnesses.
He might have also heard how she, after having made sure she was alone, whispered something to the empty farmstead.
“… And thus starts the difficult part.”
Finally, he might have been surprised to see the orange mare head straight into the bushes of stinging nettle… only to disappear into the hole that the thicket hid within it.
And so the Faraway Farm, ruins of something that had stood at the edge of Ponyville since the time of its building, were silent once more. Just like they always had. Watching and waiting for someone to come along and rebuild them to their former glory. Hoping that some soul would wander in and take it upon themselves to fix the decrepit buildings and fill the farmstead with laughter and smiles once again, bringing its bounty to the creatures of all nearby towns. After all, behind that wish were the oldest of reasons.
Everything happened for the Harvest Seasons.