The House on Mayberry Hill

by Alexander

A Day in Spring

The House on Mayberry Hill

Chapter 6: A Day in Spring

The heart of a stallion is a very fickle matter. One moment, the poor stallion may be in a state of reckless abandon; then the next, he may be in a state of concern and will tend to act thoughtfully. Such was also true for the heart of a stallion who was feeling the tugging of love. The poor stallion in question, whose fickle heart was gripped by newfound affection, is none other than Palmer Orchid.

After his meeting with Rose Bloom in the length of Corner Lane, his heart had swung full round to its current standing. When he had first met her on the road into town, he wasn’t much fussed about her; but now, she was all he could think of. In these days now, he would wait every afternoon for her to ride by in her wagon. On most days around that time, Palmer would retreat from his position as shepherd and retire up the hill to his cottage. There, he would change out of his shepherd’s attire and make himself over in more formal wear. With his hooves, he would fumble about with the small buttons of his collar and after several coarse moments of cursing, he would resort to cheating by using his horn. After that chore was finished, he would move over to his mirror by the door and neaten his mane.

When all chores were finished and he was sure of himself, Palmer would then step back out and descend down the stairs. Going as fast as he pleased, he would proceed then to walk round up to the crest of the hill. Once there, he would briskly walk to a bough of trees and blooming shrubs and take his residence there.

The trees had overgrown and their large branches buried in blankets of leafs cast the area in bright shade. Veils of vines etched and carved their ways up the wide trunks of the trees and coursed their ways over the roots. Even at the slightest touch of wind, the day birds would wake from their nests and sing a song in response. The shrubs consisted of Hydrangeas and Lilacs. There was even a lone Crabapple tree that was beginning to bloom. In the middle of this shaded, green, serenaded bough was a stump whose façade was scarred with the signs of ax-work.

Once at the bough, Palmer would take his usual seat atop the bald stump and patiently wait. After days of trial and error; after days of waiting for too long and after days of having arrived too late, Palmer had determined the right time to show. Two-thirty he would constantly think to himself. It would not be too much longer yet until he would hear the familiar clop of hooves against packed gravel and the creaking of olden wagon wheels.

At those unforgettable sounds, Palmer Orchid would then stand from his place on the stump and descended down the hill to where the tamed path cut its way through. As Rose would approach, the pair would then share a pleasant welcoming and a short conversation about the recent news. Still being increasingly shy, Palmer would mostly blush and nod his head. Then after several moments of this daily meeting, Rose would depart towards town and Palmer would retreat to his cottage. Once settled there, he would remove his formal wear and shrink back into the old worn cotton apparel of his position as sheep herder. In a sudden state of sadness, he would sit down on his mattress and stare longingly at the wood boards under his hooves. The heart of a stallion in love was a very fickle thing indeed.

******

It was spring. It had been months since the birthing season had ended in which Palmer had welcomed a dozen new lambs into his flock. The greenery had, since the frequent rains and warmer temperatures of spring, sprung back into life. The large trees that lined the crest of Palmer’s windy hill had also leapt back into being and their large heavy branches were overloaded now with life. All through the meadows, the vast fields of wild-flowers had blossomed in places that were once bare through out the winter. And so now every morning while waking, Palmer would turn in his bed and await the bird songs and as it just so happens, it was morning now.

Palmer roughly turned in his cot and struck his head against the backboard. Cursing, he quickly sat up and worked on massaging his temples until the pain ebbed away. He pricked his ears to his window in search for the birds he so loved to listen to. Instead of bird songs fleeting in through the window, Palmer could only hear the steady platter and the ever-condescending drone of rain against his roof. Palmer didn’t much enjoy the rain at all but he endured it since it gave water to his flock.

Grumbling, Palmer stood from his cot and gave his back an all too well appreciated stretch. He then gave all of his legs a quick shake and stretch before ridding himself of any left over traces of sleep. He crossed over to the window and watched as the rain water fell in loud sheets from his roof down to the earth below. A small ditch in the ground was being carved and formed by the constant pummeling of water and Palmer watched as blades of grass and random twigs were carried off by the side of his home by means of a little stream. Determining that there would be no bird songs this morning, Palmer turned from his window and made a line for his bath.

He stepped in and turned on the hot water. At this point, all signs of sleep had washed away and Palmer stood completely erect and alert. When his washing had finished, he slowly turned the knob and stepped out of the deep tub. Without wasting any time at all, Palmer dried himself with a light of his horn and feeling the instant rush of warmth, he departed and made his way to his empty kitchen. He fumbled around looking for anything to eat and deciding that he would find nothing there, he crossed back to his main foyer. He walked up to the peg by the door, tied a casual collar around his neck, and grabbed his stick down from its place. When he was finished, he left.

The rain struck Palmer’s shoulders as he went down the front steps and as he made his way round to his back barn. It was a small little structure, hardly any larger than his portable hut that he had put away many weeks ago after all the newborn lambs had been delivered. He opened the front door and stepped inside in a bid to escape from the assault of rain. He ran a hoof across his forehead and wiped away the rain. When he was dry enough (not quite dry enough for his liking but it was good enough), he puckered his lips and whistled for his dogs. He turned a ear to a pile of rubble by the far corner and watched as two dogs emerged, their tongues lolled out and tails wagging.

“Here you go, Tinker,” Palmer said as he fixed down a bowl of dog food for his prized dog. He laughed lightly at his inability to keep his own kitchen stocked while he was perfectly capable of maintaining the levels of dog food he kept in his barn. He found it ironic.

“Here you go . . . Joe – yeah, that’s gonna be your name today,” he continued on as he set down another bowl for the other.

Turning to leave, Palmer caught sight of an ornament hanging from one of the banisters overhead. As he loomed in closer to it, he heard the familiar faint hum of hornets.

Damn, he thought to himself with a scowl as he looked the large nest up and down, giving a look of deep distaste. I forgot it was that time of year for y’all to start popping up all over the place again. As soon as I can find my flock and get them where they need to be, I’m gonna come back and knock you down and get you outta here. Oh yes. You just wait on for a while yet.

With that mental note made, Palmer inched back away from the nest and went back to his dogs. Tinker and Joe were finished eating and were sitting on their hind-legs patiently for the door to be opened. Thunder crackled high above Palmer’s head as he crossed the floor to the doors and gave them a quick short open. He was met in the face with a flash of bright white as a sharp bolt of lightning cut through the sky directly above his head. The roll of thunder that soon followed shook Palmer to his core and he grasped a hold of the doors to prevent himself from falling over. He felt his two dogs rush past his legs into the safety of the barn.

Shaking his head free of shock, Palmer stepped back out into the torrential rain and whistled for his dogs again. Tinker came running back out as if for the first time ever, while as always during a thunderstorm, the other would not budge forward. Not even an inch from where he was. After whistling again and calling for him, Palmer gave “Joe” up as a bad job and took Tinker by the collar; together the two marched up the hill to its crest. Palmer took a look around and seeing no sign of his sheep, he ran down the hill to the road.

He sloshed his way through a deep trough of standing water as he neared the bottom but didn’t stop to think twice of it. Palmer quickly turned his head to the left, and then to the right, but still not a sign of any of his sheep. He shook rain away from his eyes and cowered slightly as another bolt of lightning cut through overhead. Thunder shook him again as Palmer ran down the street away from town; Tinker was following close behind.

If Palmer was going to find his sheep, then the only place that came to mind was that ruined old barn that his father and then his father before him had used to use. Palmer was going to use this barn instead of the small one he’s currently got but right before his father had passed along the family business, a freak storm, unscheduled by the weather teams, had rolled in from the mountains a far ways off and blew a portion of the roof clean off.

He and his father had rushed out of their home after the storm had passed to find the barn in ruin. A large hole had appeared in the roof and masses of boards and shingles had landed in heaps on the ground. It was all a mess and without using magic (Palmer was the first unicorn in his bloodline since his great-great grandfather), the debris and rubble had taken near to a week to clean. Since then, nopony’s bothered to rebuild the damaged barn in the thought that another storm like that might roll in and blow it all to pieces again. And so, the barn was never built back nor was it ever torn down; it was simply let to sit and fall on its own whenever it wanted.

Palmer turned down a muddy path and his forelegs immediately sank into a deep pool of water. Cursing again, he removed himself and stood in the rain a while so that the mud would be washed clean. When he was certain that he was clean enough, he continued on his way until he came across the familiar picket fence and turned down the short path to the barn. As he neared, sure enough, he could see the faint tracks of sheep in the few areas of ground around the barn that had not yet been touched by the rain.

He wiped the sweat away again and entered in through the large doors that stood ajar. He inched in and closed the doors behind him with a kick of his hind legs. Wiping the rain away, he looked to his immediate left to the area that still had roof above it and just as he had expected, his flock of nearly a hundred was cuddled and sheltered from the rain. He felt a nudge on his leg and looked down to see Old Tinker sitting on his rump, his tongue lolling out and his tail wagging. Palmer smiled.

Content with knowing where his sheep were and knowing they were safe and that their pelts were clean and dry, Palmer went back out into the rain.

******

The rain ended later that morning to the arrival of bird song. After finding his flock of sheep, Palmer left the old barn and returned to his cottage on the hill. By the time he had returned, he was soaked to the bone and he was in a constant shiver. He had closed the door and took off his collar and hung his stick back up in its place. Tossing, the wet and dirty collar into the dirty laundry bin, he gave it up as a bad job and crossed to his bath, leaving puddles of rain water in his wake. He once again stepped into his shower and washed away any traces of mud and grass that might have still been matted to his coat. When his washing was over, he stepped out again for the second time that day and dried himself with a light of his horn until he was left standing warm, dry, content, and homely.

He waited on his bed by his window scratching the area behind Tinker’s ears that he knew his dog loved the most. When the rain ended and there were no more crackles of thunder, Palmer rose from his bed and crossed back to his front door. He took his stick down and went outside to be met with that smell that always lingered after a good rain. He wasn’t quite sure of how to describe it but he knew that this smell was the only thing he ever really enjoyed that came with rain. He descended the stairs.

His hooves met the soft mudded earth and he rounded back down the hill to the road. He turned left in the direction of the old barn and set his attention to it. Tinker followed close behind as the pair turned down the path to it. Palmer pursed his lips and whistled, signaling for Tinker to rush into the barn and start work. Palmer soon followed and after several long minutes of whistling, stick swinging, barking, and guidance, he and his dog had accomplished their goal of getting the sheep back out into the sun. Without the presence of the rain and wind, the sun felt uncomfortably hot on Palmer’s shoulders.

With another whistle from Palmer, Tinker ran back around to the back of the flock and waited for another whistle. When Palmer delivered, Tinker ran up to the group of sheep and barked, sending the flock into a nice pace. Palmer got out of the way to the left and with a swing of his stick, he stopped a few stragglers in their spot and returned them to the herd.

With this system, it took nearly an hour to return the flock to the hill. Once he got them back to their watering hole and set them to the pasture, Palmer climbed the tall hill to the ridge and cleared an area beside one of the large trees and sat down. He turned his gaze back down to the far horizon just as his father had always done but found nothing new with it. Finally determining that his olden father had been just one screw loose before his death, Palmer returned his gaze to his flock.

Palmer Orchid’s life and chore as shepherd was a very simple thing free from much trial. On most days, he could simply wake in the mornings and after making sure that all was as all should be, he could sit atop his hill just as he was doing now. He heavily sighed in boredom and blankly stared down into the valley towards town and he dreamed of Rose. Her mane, her coat, that smile of hers, her voice, her blushing, her laugh, and her; he dreamed of all of her and he smiled.

After a while of sitting, watching his flock, and dreaming of Rose, Palmer slowly stood and stretched out his aching legs. Feeling instant relief, he turned his head to the deep blue of the sky and determining the position of the sun, he assumed that the time was nearing one. With that assumption in mind, Palmer descended the hill and slowly walked round to his cottage. He gave his flock one final look-over before climbing the stairs and closing the door lightly behind him. It was nearing time to meet up for his daily encounter with Rose; the beautiful Rose Bloom who had ensnared his fickle heart in love for all the spring months.

******

“Rose,” Palmer said to himself as the familiar wagon made its way down the path. He picked himself from the worn old stump and crossed down to the gravel surface of the road. The soft ground from the earlier rains buckled under his hooves as he went. “Rose,” Palmer said again as he reached the road.

He leaned himself out farther into the road and watched patiently as the wagon neared. He silently judged the distance of it and determined that it was close to a hundred yards off. As the wagon neared closer, Palmer could see the known form of Rose but beside her was somepony that he did not know. As the wagon neared closer, he remembered the other pony as the old mare that he had seen in through the window all those months ago. In a sudden panic of what to do, Palmer darted behind a present bush and hid.

As the wagon was near upon him, Palmer clinched his mouth and eyes shut as if by not seeing the wagon, he would not be seen as well.

“I guess he isn’t coming today,” Palmer heard Rose say from her bench far above from he where was crouching.

“Who isn’t coming, dear,” Palmer heard another voice say. This new voice was raspy, dull, and low. He assumed that this was the olden mare. “Who isn’t coming?” he heard her ask again.

“Oh just somepony I wanted you to meet,” Rose explained as Palmer heard the sound of creaking wood board. He guessed that she was shifting in her seat. He looked out from under the bush and was met in the face by a spray of dirt that had been kicked from the hoof of one of the large mulls pulling.

“Oh? Your very own special somepony, perhaps?” Palmer heard the old mare ask. His heart flipped in anticipation of the answer.

“Oh no, Auntie,” Rose quickly said and Palmer heard the wood board creak again. “Oh no, Auntie, he’s not my special somepony.”

“Then who is he?”

“Auntie, you’ve been in this little town of Klimmington all your life; do you know of a Palmer Orchid?”

“I do.”

“Well he’s that pony I wanted you to meet today.”

“Rose,” the old mare said suddenly after a while. Her voice this time sounded grave and severe as if delivering terrible news. “Rose, you mustn’t get involved with that Orchid. Them Orchid’s have been nothing but trouble and they’ve always lived so . . . homely. I don’t like them. You really mustn’t get too involved with that Orchid.”

“Why not, Auntie? Besides, he and I aren’t like that. We just meet once a day along this road and talk for a while. That is all.”

“Rose, you are the daughter of a successful business owner and the niece of a renowned plantation owner. That Orchid is simply a shepherd. He has nothing.”

Palmer Orchid slumped down into the deepest shades of the bush and listened on. He gripped at his chest with his hooves in pain at what he had heard. He slumped further and listened on.

“Have you actually ever met him, Auntie?” Rose asked in a certain demanding tone of voice.

“I have not.”

“Then how can you say something like being homely as being a bad thing?”

“I’ve met that boy’s grandfather and his wife and they’re not the best people. They’ve been shepherds and farmers all throughout their lineage. They’ll never rise above that.”

“I don’t know how they may have been, but I know that Palmer is a delightful pony to be around.”

“Then you’re just making a mistake. Those Orchid’s are nothing but a hindrance.”

“I do not see Palmer Orchid in that way, Auntie.”

“Do you wish to marry him?”

From where he was slumped down into the shadows, Palmer consequently heard every word of this. He hopefully raised his head in belief that the answer would be a good one.

“Auntie, have you heard a word of what you just said? You’ve just asked me if I want to marry the poor stallion,” Rose protested with another adjustment of her sitting, as told by the creaking of the board.

“Well, do you?”

“Auntie, I cannot answer that question.”

“It is a simple ‘yes’ or ‘no’ question. How can you not answer it?”

“First of all Auntie, asking me if I want to marry somepony is not a simple ‘yes’ or ‘no’ question. Secondly, I do not know.”

“Now how is it that you do not know?”

“Auntie, this conversation is getting out-of-bounds.”

“It is not.”

“It is so.”

“Then just answer my question and then we can be on our way to town. I do have things to pick up or have you forgotten?”

“I haven’t forgotten, Auntie.”

“Then hurry and answer my question.”

There was another creak of the wagon’s bench as Rose shifted uncomfortably and from even where he was in his hole, Palmer could only imagine the blush that had crossed Rose’s cheeks. He pricked his ears closer to where the two mares were and he listened on. He heard Rose sigh.

“Auntie, I truly cannot answer that question. I do not know its answer. Please stop pressuring me into answering something that I can’t,” Palmer heard Rose say, a tint of anxiousness and desperation on her tongue.

“Fine; if that is the way things really are, then fine. I shall ask you no more.”

“Thank you, Auntie.”

“But; but, if you were ever to make up an answer, you be sure to tell me and depending on what you say and choose, we’ll just have to see what I do.”

“Okay, Auntie.”

“Now then. Now that that has ended, can we move on now? The smell of all these flowers is messing with my old nose.”

“Okay, Auntie. Hold on a minute.”

Palmer heard the crack of the reins and the sound of the wheels beginning to spin. Through the breaks in the branches, Palmer watched for a while as the wagon pulled away towards town. When the wagon had gone out of sight, he raised himself from his place and cleaned off all the mud and leaves that had gotten stuck to his coat and mane. Palmer twitched at the idea of the third shower that day. Grimacing, he decided that he would just take it in the morning.

Slowly, Palmer set back on his trek towards his cottage. In his state of sadness, he ignored all the sounds of the birds that he would normally have enjoyed and appreciated. Even as a cool spring breeze wrung through and caused all the leaves in the large trees to flutter, he found no joy in it. He slowly and deliberately crossed up the hill to his flock of sheep. Ignoring even his formal Sunday wear, he whistled for his dogs and set to work on guiding his herd to another pasture on the other side of the hill.

When this chore had finished, Palmer set his two dogs to watch over the flock and he rounded back over the ridge of the hill again. He went down and then around to his cottage and quietly ascended the front steps. Palmer shook his head as he went inside and removed his formal collar and his front. He observed a streak of mud and leaves that he had missed and with a grumble, he tossed it into the dirty laundry bin. He crossed back to his bedroom and sat down on the side of his mattress. With a deep sigh, he closed the window with a flash of his horn and he dropped his head into his hooves. The heart of a stallion in love is a very fickle thing indeed.

Comments

[Alexander]

377838

Thanks. I'll go get those fixed. I'm glad you enjoy it