It Is My Fate To Enter Every Door
THE COURTSHIP OF CLYDESDALE PIE
Clydesdale Pie’s wife's name was Emma. Well, to be honest, her true name was unknown to him, and he counted his every day with her a blessing, because she was a miracle.
His courtship of her began in this manner:
He had found her, one day, out in the South Fields, wandering among the stony megaliths. How she had got out there, he couldn’t imagine. When he had first approached her, she had shied away and it took some coaxing to lure her away from the cliffs into the warmth of the blanket that he held out to her.
Even then, she didn’t talk to him for many tens of days. So, Clydesdale went about his business, sighting the stones, shifting the cairns, observing the lines of the Earth that ran beneath the rock farm.
Clydesdale Pie was a sensible pony. Although quiet, he was neighborly and willing to lend his back to anypony in need, without thought of reward. A good'un, said those who knew him. So if this strange mare seemed troubled, he'd give her time. A rock farmer is wise in the ways of time.
In the evenings, he returned to the farmhouse, swept out the dust of the day, drew water for the night, prepared dinner for two, fed her, cared for her and, respectfully, slept apart.
Then, one day, as Clydesdale looked out over his rock farm, she approached him.
“Husband,” she began, although they were not married.
He nodded. He looked in her strange crystal eyes and accepted the truth of her heart.
“I will only ask three things of you,” she said. “And if you will do these three things, I will be a good and loving wife to you.”
He thought. Then, he nodded.
“First, my husband, you must never ask me my true name.”
Clydesdale Pie took off his broad-brimmed hat. He brushed it off, thinking a bit. Then he put it back on and smiled at her.
“Second, my husband, the children I give you will be daughters. Daughters of the most remarkable kind. With me, you will not have sons. But you must never question the worth of our children.”
This was hard. Clydesdale Pie looked out across the rock farm. He’d hoped for big, strapping sons who would lift the weight of ages from his back. But, thinking upon it, he smiled. Daughters! Although he had not considered it before, he would delight in daughters!
He nodded.
“And, lastly, my husband, you must never question my love for you or for our children.”
And this Clydesdale Pie was most willing to do.
Clydesdale Pie and his mysterious bride were wed in Spring, and there were those among the rock farmers who said, that year, the corundums shone more brightly than usual, the slate was sharper and flatter than expected, and that the glacial gravels almost leapt into their wagons.
He came to call her Emma, after his mother, who had taught him to laugh at fear. When he explained this to his wife, Emma wore the name like a crown. He prized their daughters above all the treasures of the earth, and never did he doubt his wife’s devotion.
This is the tale of one of Clydesdale Pie’s four remarkable daughters: Blythe.
***
THE GATE OF HEL
She stood before the gate to Tartarus and asked herself, why didn’t I bring a big doggy treat?
Blythe Hyacinth Pie, Blinks to her family, a small, skinny Earth Pony, danced anxiously back and forth before the Gate of Hel and its enormous guardian, Cerberus.
The eyes of Cerberus tracked her. All six of them. Cerberus, the three-headed Hound of Hel, never slept. He could not be distracted. He hardly blinked. He was loyal and brave. And fierce, oh yes. The monsters that lurked within Tartarus took care not to challenge his many jaws, that could rend not only flesh, but tear mind and spirit as well.
Cerberus was a good dog. Cerberus was the god of good dogs.
There was a story, Blythe knew from her mother, that Cerberus could smell deception. Cerberus had three noses, each as big as a hay bale, so this seemed possible to Blythe.
She stood quietly, clutching her panniers, as the gigantic guardian of Tartarus sniffed at her, gauging her worth.
Cerberus cocked his heads at her, quizzically. He did this every time she visited. It wasn’t just familiarity; he had done this the very first time she had nervously approached the Gate. In some way he didn’t understand, Cerberus recognized something in her.
In the end, Cerberus shook his heads and snuffed at her, as if to say, You are honest and innocent! Away with you! You have no place in Hel!
Blythe cringed. But she collected herself and stood her ground.
Thank goodness Mooch is here!
Master Sergeant Mooch was a short, chocolate-haired Diamond Dog. He wore a big helmet that fell over his eyes, so that he had to push it up to see. His armor was two or three sizes too big, so that it seemed to swallow him. Mooch carried a spear, or perhaps it carried him, as he used it to prop himself up.
“Pretty pony!” shouted Mooch, as he approached the Gate of Hel.
Even from a Diamond Dog, being called “pretty” gave Blythe a thrill. She hoisted her panniers and stood up straight as Mooch emerged from the Gate.
"O you who come into this camp of woe," cried Mooch, "watch where you go, once you have entered here, and to whom you turn! Do not be misled by that wide and easy passage!"
And Blythe said to him: "That is not your concern; it is my fate to enter every door. This has been willed where what is willed must be, and it is not yours to question. Say no more."
Blythe and Mooch regarded each other for a moment. Then they broke up laughing after reciting the old formula.
At this, Cerberus receded. The Guardian of the Gate sat back on his haunches and grinned at the pair, his great red tongues lolling from his jaws.
Blythe trotted through the Gate of Hel and Mooch was her guide.
“It is good to see you again, Master Sergeant Mooch,” said Blythe. “I hope Mistress Mooch and your pups are happy, as always.”
Mooch pushed his helmet back and bared his teeth. “Aye, the wife is in good health and the pups are frolicsome. Sprouting like mushrooms, they are. The wife, she tasked me to thank you for the pumice stone. Cleans a trick, she says.”
“Your goodwife is most welcome,” said Blythe. “Oh! You remind me! I have this for you! It is small, but perhaps you will find value in it.”
Blythe rummaged through her panniers and produced a small cloth pouch. She presented it to Mooch.
Mooch emptied the pouch into his paw. A tiny green stone, small as a button, appeared.
The Diamond Dog’s eyes glowed. “Now, there’s a lovely thing,” he said, turning the small gem this way and that.
“We don’t harvest much jade on the farm,” explained Blythe. “Pa is still trying to work it out. However, you are welcome to what little we have.”
The Diamond Dogs dwelt in darkness and so were fascinated with light. Creatures of the depths, their observatories looked not up to the stars, but down into the mysteries of minerals and the souls of crystals. They saw worlds in grains of sand.
Mooch’s paw clenched tight about the gem. He looked about, then hid the stone under his armor. “Thank you, pretty pony,” he said, quietly.
“You are most welcome, sir,” said Blythe.
They walked together into the darkness of Hel. They crossed the Bridge of Sighs and the light of the world faded. The shadows became palpable. The shrieks and roars of the doomed came faintly to their ears.
“You’re bound for Arima, I reckon,” said Mooch, his eyes hidden.
“Yes, sir,” said Blythe. “And beyond, I think.”
Mooch nodded, touching the gem that lay warm and glowing against his breast.
They walked further into Hel, until at last they came to the Great Plaza of Doors. The Black Statue of Minos, the stern colossus of a Minotaur, towered over them, the Book of Law in one hoof and the Whip of Judgement in the other. Around the plaza were arrayed the dark doors that led to the deeper levels of Hel.
Blythe could never have found her way without a guide. The doors were odd, you see. They moved, sometimes. And they did not always open onto the same space.
Mooch led Blythe to one door. “Beyond, lies Arima,” he declared, placing one paw against the iron frame.
Blythe girded her panniers.
Mooch threw the door wide. “Take nothing you are offered,” Mooch cautioned. “Eat nothing you are given. Stop your ears against flattery and promise. Never be at ease! Do not forget you are among the damned and the damned are liars.”
The Diamond Dog looked down. “Pretty pony, do not go,” whined Mooch. “Pret—, Mistress Blythe, please.”
But Blythe Hyacinth Pie, determined, hoisted her panniers and trotted into the depths of Hel.
And Master Sergeant Mooch, faithful guardian of Tartarus, slammed the door shut behind her.
***
THE MOTHER OF MONSTERS
The Mother of Monsters stirred at the disturbance. Oh, what is it, now?
A breath of innocence and kindness, of pride and courage, came to her nostrils. Not one of mine, she sniffed.
In the ages bequeathed to her, Echidna had done her best to dress up her prison. The glowrocks illuminated the cavern of Arima, at the price of mutated and sickly inhabitants, as if that mattered. The fungus forests and blind lake monsters were… pretty. This is a good place, she thought, as she nibbled at the carcass of her son, the Caucasian Eagle, whose wings regenerated every day.
Echidna hated her children. Chimera, the Vicious, was happily dead, slain by that savage pegasus, Bellerophon. Vixen, the Clever, who ran and ran through the Lands Above and the Lands Below to escape her nemesis, that relentless, idiot dog, Laelaps. (Oh, how Echidna laughed at their endless struggle!) And Eagle, the Unforgiving, who was little more than an endless supply of “hot wings.”
Proud Cerberus and his dim-witted brother, Orthus, never visited their mother, of course. They thought themselves superior. Guardians of the Gates of Hel, la-di-da! And that nameless girl-child, that had fled from Tartarus to the Lands Above. What was her name, again? No matter.
I have given life to ten thousand, Echidna thought. But do they visit me? No! And they dare to call me evil! She took another bite of her son, Eagle, and chewed thoughtfully.
The bushwoolies. Now, there were possibilities. The bushwoolies claimed that they had occupied these caverns from before Echidna’s confinement. Impossible, of course, because before me there was nothing, she thought. Yet, they were not of her, which made them fascinating.
The bushwoolies, the soft, stupid things, were amusing in their way. They built their little towns of brush and wood, danced around their fires and offered their children to her. She had eaten one or two, to show her interest, but they weren’t to her liking.
I have no taste for kindness.
She stretched. Echidna’s torso was that of a great horse; her lower part was that of a dragon. Stirring, she created floods that threatened villages that trusted her shores. Ridiculous little fools.
The cavern-land of Arima was vast. And yet it was still constrained. It tortured Echidna to be confined, limited by the possible. The little jester, Discord, may have had the right of it: what’s the fun of making sense?
Did I give birth to Discord? she wondered. It was possible; she had birthed so many things, no two alike. None of her children waited upon her now, which was just as well, for she hated them all, stupid things.
The bushwoolies now… the bushwoolies had promise. Why, recently, some “genius” among the bushwoolies had invented gunpowder! And what did the ridiculous creature do, but immediately blow himself and all his village to bits!
Echidna had descended upon the burning huts and scooped up the few survivors. She had questioned them closely and learned that the bushwoolies had hoped to create explosives, fireworks, that they would detonate in her honor!
This was such divine madness that Echidna could not help but nurture it. She appointed the survivors her Acolytes of the Mighty Boom and directed the surrounding villages to give them succor and support, on pain of death. She set them the task to create these fireworks and she anticipated the results eagerly.
Stupid things. I can’t wait to see what they do next!
The innocent and kind spirit ran through Arima by hidden paths. It left behind a trail of apples and oranges. The bushwoolies descended on these eagerly, relishing their intoxicating sweetness.
For Echidna, the spirit left behind an apple, an orange and a note: “I love you, Grandmother.”
Echidna laughed. What folly! She crunched the apple and skinned the orange. They both tasted of warmth and sunlight. Love? she thought. Ha ha! What is that?!
Yet, Echidna discarded the apple core and the orange skin, and kept the note.
***
THE TALE OF FOX AND HOUND
Blythe trotted quietly through the shadowland of Arima. Here and there, she opened her panniers and left gifts of fruit for the bushwoolies. The bushwoolies were kindly creatures, but too simple and innocent to lie. If they discovered Blythe, they would of course reveal her to Echidna, and Blythe was not yet prepared to confront her grandmother.
Blythe took a chance and left another note for Echidna. She hoped Grandmother would read it, for once.
As Blythe turned for the final descent into the uttermost realm of Tartarus, a small voice called to her in agony. "Oh, stranger, be kind! My leg is caught in a snare! I fear I will perish here! Please, I beg you, will you not free me?"
Blythe discovered a tiny filly quivering beside the path, her left hind leg caught in a trap. Blythe's heart was moved. But Blythe Hyacinth Pie was wise in the ways of Tartarus.
"I will free you, child," said Blythe, moving towards her.
The filly smiled through her tears.
"But first," continued Blythe, "you must give me your true name."
The filly frowned furiously. Then she smiled. "Oh, stranger, surely my name is unimportant. I am only a child, and no danger to you at all. But I must caution you! Beware! A frightful fiend doth close behind me tread! Free me and let us flee to safety!"
Blythe heard it then, the noise of the Questing Beast, whose heavy pads thumped against the stone of Tartarus. Blythe heard the snuff of his immense flews, as the Beast sought its prey.
"I will free you, child," Blythe said again. She raised the sharp edge of her hoof against the line of the snare.
The trapped filly glowed.
Blythe considered the bones of the bushwoolies that had collected around the filly. "But first, your true name," Blythe said.
"We have only moments before the Beast is upon us! Why do you hesitate? Why must you be so cruel?" cried the filly.
Blythe cocked an ear towards tunnel above her. "He sounds pretty close," she said. "Your name?"
The filly growled and spat. The child changed, growing and stretching into a mighty Fox, her coat the color of autumn flame. Her eyes were as bright as stars. "None may know my true name, child. My true name would burn your soul. But, to you," she said, bowing, "I am Vixen, the Clever."
Blythe bowed in return, and smiled. "I see that 'Vixen the Clever's' leg is caught in a snare. This part of your plan is so subtle, it confounds me. Why, the ignorant would imagine you trapped!"
"The ignorant would think so," glared the Vixen. "But, even now, I am not without resources. Damn you, child! Will you not free me? With every second, the Beast draws nearer! And do not be deceived! He is cruel and cunning, yes, and merciless! Do you think you will be spared, if he discovers you? Free me! Free me at once! I command this!"
Blythe looked up into the eyes of her distant cousin. There is desperation and sadness there, Blythe thought. Whatever her sins, she doesn't deserve this.
Blythe brought her hoof down. The snare parted. The Vixen was free.
The Vixen exulted. "You fool! You pony fool! Do you know what you have done?"
Blythe Hyacinth Pie looked up into the gaze of the Vixen. "I have saved your soul, cousin. And my own."
The Vixen started.
Then the howl of the Questing Beast came echoing down the dark corridors that lay below Arima.
"He's coming, cousin," said Blythe. "Best run now."
The Vixen glared down at Blythe. Then her gaze softened. "'Cousin,' you said. It has been long since I have been hailed by family. We are more alike than I first thought. You have a cunning mind. Let us speak again, when my errands are not so hurried."
Vixen the Clever ran off into the darkness of Tartarus. Blythe looked after her, sadly.
In time, Laelaps the Hunter galumphed into the chamber occupied by Blythe. The Hunter of Tartarus was tall and sleek, long of limb and purple of coat. His glowing eyes pierced every shadow. His alert ears heard every whisper. He opened his flews and breathed the dark. After sniffing the chamber, he turned three times and settled next to Blythe.
"Where'd she go?" asked Laelaps.
"Who?" asked Blythe.
"Her! You know, my Prey! The best person ever!" yelped Laelaps. "Vixen!"
"Do you like the Vixen?" asked Blythe, astonished.
Laelaps laughed. "Of course! She tries to be mean, but I can smell the kindness in her! There was this time, yep! yep!, when we were both in the Lands Above, and she sought protection with the Bison. She looked like one of them, see. She's smart! She can do that! She's amazing!
"In the Lands Above, I'm not so big. I look like a regular dog, woof, woof! So I chased after the Bison and the Big Chief, well, he looked down on me and thought me a scavenger, one of the wild dogs that eat the dead and sometimes kill their calves. And he decided that his lieutenants should stamp me to death. I was pretty sad about that.
"But the Vixen, do you know what she did? She looked upon me and knew me. We have known each other of old. She pointed at me and shouted, 'Let this one be a messenger! Let this worthless dog travel all the lands and give testimony to the justice and might of the Bison tribes!'
"The Bison then stamped with applause. The Vixen looked down on me and whispered, 'Best run now.' And so I ran."
The Hunter of Tartarus snuffed. He drew in the dank air of the Lands Below and worried over it. Then he looked down at Blythe and cocked his head, as if to say, we aren't so different, are we?
"Laelaps," asked Blythe. "What will you do if you catch her?"
The Hunter shook his head. "I dunno. Maybe I'm stupid, but some mornings, I think of days in fall, when the ground is covered in red leaves, just the color of her coat, and think of her. I'd like us to be pals, playing in the autumn leaves. Maybe that's why I run after her and try to catch her. Just so I can say, hey! For this one morning, let's be pals and play with the leaves."
"'LAPS! Come on! I'm waiting!" called the Vixen's voice from the darkness.
"Yep! Yep! Let's go!" Laelaps grinned his doggy grin and chased off after his most beloved friend.
And then the Vixen and the Hound ran on through the Lands Below and the Lands Above, the worst of enemies and the best of friends.
***
TYPHON
Blythe Hyacinth Pie at last entered the deepest chamber of Tartarus, below even Arima. Before her, resting on the floor, was a tiny box, no larger than a grapefruit. How can you exist in so small a prison?
Blythe steeled herself and addressed it. “Grandfather,” said Blythe. “I have come again.”
“FOOLISH CHILD,” came a deep, powerful voice from the black box, that echoed about the chamber.
Around Blythe, the blackness roiled. The roil was Typhon, Father of Monsters.
Heads, claws, wings and legs, flesh hard and soft, bones and skin, organs, of perception, digestion, excretion and action, pressed against boundaries of his prison and recoiled. Typhon was defined by the infinite smallness between himself and that which was not himself.
“YOU ANNOY ME,” said Typhon. “WHY DO YOU RETURN, THIS YEAR AND EVERY YEAR? I AM ONE OF THE WORLD-CREATORS! YOU ARE LESS THAN NOTHING! BEGONE! I WILL NOT GRANT YOU AUDIENCE!”
“Grandfather,” Blythe insisted.
“DO NOT MAKE THIS CLAIM!” thundered Typhon. “YOUR ORIGINS ARE A MYSTERY! ACCEPT THIS! WHY DO YOU PERSIST IN THIS FOLLY? YOU ARE ONLY A LITTLE PONY. WHAT HAVE YOU TO OFFER A DARK GOD?”
In answer, Blythe Hyacinth Pie opened her throat and sang.
She sang of the dawn. Of chilly mornings, holding a mug of hot cocoa, her breath shaping clouds before her. Of walking among the megaliths in the half-light and feeling the stones calling to her.
She sang of the day. Sweating and straining in her harness beside her father and her sisters, united in purpose. Proud of her body, proud of her kin, secure in their strength.
She sang of the evening. Of Father and Mother and Sisters, whom she argued with, laughed at, adored and gathered close to her heart.
She sang of the night. Of the timid hours, when she doubted her worth. Of the grandeur of the sky, that made her feel both tiny and immense.
Blythe sang of hope, for herself, her family, her friends and the land.
“HOPE? YOU WOULD TORTURE ME WITH HOPE?” growled Typhon.
“Grandfather, hope is all I have to give you,” said Blythe. “Please, will you not come with me? Into the light of day, into the circle of your family?”
“YOU KNOW WHY I LINGER HERE IN DARKNESS! YOU KNOW! DO NOT PRETEND OTHERWISE!” Typhon roared.
Blythe looked down. “It is Grandmother, isn’t it? Grandmother Echidna. Your wife. She… isn’t ready to leave yet, is she? And so you wait for her.”
“YES.”
“Because you have hope for her.”
Typhon stormed about his prison. His rage was terrible. He thundered against the walls of his confinement until Blythe feared she would go deaf.
Then, finally, “YES.” The darkness shrank upon itself. “Yes.
“You have seen,” Typhon rumbled, “how she is with the bushwoolies? She regards them with contempt, with amusement. Yet, see! She thinks upon them, considers their welfare, even as she dismisses her own spawn!
“She does not realize it yet, but she has become attached to these simple creatures. They are but playthings to her, but, through them, she has discovered… affection. Concern for beings other than herself. She has discovered the beginnings of love!
“O, my dear wife!” cried the Father of Monsters. He was silent, for a time.
Then Typhon’s voice sank to a terrible whisper. “Repeat this and I will kill you and everything you hold dear, if I must hunt you to the end of eternity.
“I, I… hurt her, when we were joined. In the times when I mated with her, you understand. I thought only of myself, my need, and not of her. And so, ten thousand monsters were born.
“Here, in Tartarus, I have had time to consider my actions. I have come to regard Echidna with respect and admiration. And I regret that our joining was so… troubled. If she does harm now, I think it because I myself harmed her so long ago, so now she confuses hurt with affection.
“You puzzled over why my prison is so small. A ‘tiny box’ you called it. But, granddaughter, what more do I deserve?”
“Grandfather,” began Blythe.
“No, say no more,” interrupted Typhon. “Look there.”
A cold blue light glowed, illuminating a staircase that led up from the lowest quarter of Hel.
“The exit from Hel is there,” said Typhon. “Always there. Just in reach. Taunting me. This is the most terrible prison, because it has no walls. I could leave, join the Lands Above at any time. Yet, I hold myself in. For her.”
Blythe turned towards the stairs. His box is so small, I could carry him to daylight, she thought. And he would hate me for his rescue. I should go.
She put her hoof on the first step.
“GRANDDAUGHTER, STOP!”
Blythe paused at the threshold of Hel.
“Take this,” said Typhon. A necklace of ebony and jade appeared before Blythe. “If you wear my sigil, no creature in Hel will challenge you, lest he face my wrath. And I will place no bond upon you, except this: that you will return, and again sing to me of the warmth of daylight and the glamor of night.”
Blythe took the necklace and thought. She said, “Grandfather, I have been counseled against accepting the gifts of Hel, for often they have hidden teeth.”
Then Blythe draped the necklace about her shoulders. “But I choose to trust you. Against reason, but in accord with my heart. Grandfather, you may mock me, but I carry hope for you.”
“GO NOW!” thundered Typhon. “GO! BUT REMEMBER THAT YOU SHALL RETURN!”
So Blythe Hyacinth Pie galloped up the stairs of Hel. And she wept, that she left her family behind in darkness.
***
“Well, I’m back,” said Blythe, as she returned to the farmhouse, after her long trek back from Hel.
Her sister, Incunabula, relieved her of her panniers. She looked curiously at Blythe’s necklace, but said nothing. Ma looked closely into Blythe’s eyes and perceived the truth of Blythe’s journey. “Perhaps, in time,” Ma whispered. “We still have hope.”
Then Pa, dusty and tired, came in from the rock fields. Spying his daughters together, he looked relieved. Blythe galloped to him and hugged him tightly.
Clydesdale Pie hugged her back. “I am so proud of you,” he whispered. “You. Maudeline, Pinkamena and Incunabula. What father could have hoped for better daughters?”
Then Clydesdale Pie stood back, straightened his hat and asked, “Well, what’s for dinner?”
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I wrote this for Equestria Daily's "Father's Day" event. There aren't a lot of "dads" in MLP:FIM, understandably, since the focus of the series is about young mares doing interesting things. I was tempted to write a story about Carrot Cake and his love for the Twins, but that seemed too obvious and too easy. I decided, instead, to take a chance on the more "problematic" fathers: Clydesdale Pie and Typhon (whose existence is implied by the presence of Tartarus just over the hill from Ponyville).
Clyde is a good guy, I think. He is quiet, but he shows his love for his family through his diligent work.
Typhon is more troubling. He's the abusive husband and father who is struggling to become decent. I equivocated about his presentation: he is, at turns, monstrous and thoughtful. I don't think he's ready, yet, to join the Lands Above.
Echidna, as I've imagined her here, is like the worst sort of villain from the G1 series: selfish, gloating and intimidating. The bushwoolies are creatures of the G1 series, but here they have a little power: Echidna secretly hopes for them to survive and thrive.
I always thought it was odd that the gate to the underworld was apparently within walking distance of Ponyville, yet no one seems particularly troubled by this. Even worse, Cerberus, the guardian of Hell, who keeps all those monsters and horrors from escaping, occasionally goes on a bit of a wander and has to be lured back to his duties.
Anyway, lovely story, as always. It's particularly interesting to the MLP world through a Greek-inspired lens.
Well, this is a nice twist.
This is a very interesting piece. it has a lot of world building and implications for the Pie family. It makes you really want to know the secrets of the mother and what it means for Pinkie. I would love to see some more chapters of this.
2761124
As a fanfic writer, I was stunned by the appearance of Cerberus and the mention of Tartarus. For love of Celestia and Luna, how does this fit into my world view? Equestria is a mysterious land of which we have only had narrow glimpses. We forget this at our peril.
A few notes:
"Emma" is a tiny joke. In Buddhist mythology, "Emna" is the judge of the dead.
Blythe's and Mooch's "old formula" is from Dante's Inferno.
The Caucasian Eagle was the tormentor of Prometheus, tearing out his liver every day. I thought it appropriate that the Eagle be paid in kind.
The Teumessian vixen vs the hunter, Lelaps, seems like a Warner Brothers cartoon waiting to happen.
Love your worldbuilding as per usual, and the whimsical, breezy way you glide over a story like this with so few words.
Greek mythology geeks! Represent!
Very nice story. I smiled at the mention of the bushwoolies.
Darn, and I thought my kids had a hard time figuring out what to get me for Fathers Day.
2761152
Equestria is like the love child of Greek mythology and D&D Monster Manual. All dressed up in pastel-colored magic ponies!
2761124
2761152
The first episode:
Of the show that I saw in real time rather than on YouTube was "Feeling Pinkie Keen," and if I hadn't been a fan before, the moment when that hydra came rising up out of the bog would've cemented it.
Very fine story here. Very fine.
Mike
2761483
Thank you. Whew, it's hard to keep these names straight! (Update: OMG! There's another one! Spellchecker save me!)
Ahhhh, so good as always. Forget Sunny Skies, I'll take Cloudy any day!
Plus, I adore mythology.
Nicely done. I really enjoyed the bit with Mooch and Cerberus, in particular.
Nitpick: I don't think the first three paragraphs are doing anything useful. Partly this is because of the old "show, don't tell" thing. The opening is telling us what the rest of the first section is showing us. Having both is a bit redundant, and the latter is far more powerful. Mostly, though, it's the ghostpig principle. Which of these seems like a stronger opening:
The first says "this story is well-written, but probably nothing you haven't seen before." The second says "put down everything you're doing and read this." Seriously, I read the first couple of paragraphs, then got distracted by irc and did other stuff for half an hour. When I came back and got to the hook, I ignored my family to finish the rest in one sitting.
Bah, I've been hooked! Now I want to know what's really up with the necklace... but I suppose that mystery, that trust, is part of the story. Very interesting. Love the mythology references... and I was so confused when bushwoolies came up because I'd never heard of them xD I had to google them. Ancient mythological creatures mixed with slightly less ancient (G1 Pony) creatures.
Great story. You approached Father's Day in a way I would've never thought of, and I love it.
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So, Pinkie and her friends were being threatened by her uncle? (Aunt?)
Very nice, like the mythology and the background story for Pinkie's family: although I now wonder what sort of creature "Emma" really is...and it's always nice to see an interpretation of Typhon, the monster so bad-ass that the Greek Gods fled to Egypt when they saw him coming, and which Zeus only beat in the second round.
(Also, for what crime did the Bushwoolies end up in Tartarus? Egregious cuteseyness? )
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I think the bushwoolies were just there when the monsters moved in. Or, to wax speculative, bushwoolies of Tartarus may have somehow strayed from their place in the Realm Undying (the multiverse of My Little Pony). Actually, considering some of the menaces that regularly thundered around Dream Valley, Tartarus may seem like Paradise to them.
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I've thought a lot about this. One of Equestria Daily's pre-readers made the same point: I tend to bury the lede in my stories. While other writers like to "shoot the sheriff on the first page" or have "two guys with guns come busting in the door," this is not the way I usually think of Ponyville. But this is a defect in me, not the reader, so I should correct it.
In my defense, in this specific case, I thought it made sense. I wanted to establish Clyde and his world as ordinary, before introducing the extra-ordinary. To make a grandiose comparison: like having a scene at the Green Dragon before racing away to avoid the Black Riders of Mordor. Blythe's "Well, I'm back," at the end of the story, is not an accident.
I'll keep this in mind, going forward. One of my favorite writers is Rudyard Kipling, whose tales hook you in the first paragraph and drag you along to the end. I'm no Kipling, but I, like Blythe, have hope.
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)
To be fair, if you're thinking of Boneyard, then that prereader was me. Don't double-count my opinion. (Even though I'm right.
Also I'll point out that LotR doesn't start at the Green Dragon. It starts with Bilbo's eleventy-first birthday party, where he starts talking crazy and disappears into thin air. Only then does it go into the pastoral stuff. I like that approach in general: first the hook, then establishing the ordinary, then contrasting against that as it escalates. (When it comes to that last, you're easily the best author in the fandom. The final line in this story is perfect.)
I absolutely adore your use of Greek myth to expand the mlp-verse. The premise for this short is that wonderful combination of totally unexpected in foresight and obviously plausible in hindsight that all 'verse expansions strive for. Love it and I'm looking forward to your next effort.
That was fascinating. The Greek influence in FiM is one of my favorite parts of the show, and I just love a story that uses it well.
I noticed that "Well, I'm back," and wondered if it was an intentional reference. Very nice.
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I think you may have helped me focus on the error in my thinking, with that "ghostpig" thing (a rant that should be read by an aspiring writer). I have only written short stories, but I keep approaching them like they are longer forms, novellas or short novels; I think I have a paragraph or page to muddle around, expecting the reader to be patient, when I really don't. I need to go back to my Rudyard Kipling, Robert Bloch and John Collier, and remind myself of the economy intrinsic in the shorter forms.
I will keep this firmly in mind, as I approach my next story. Thanks!
This is bloody fine, and reminds me that I need to get my hands back on some mythology. First rate stuff.
I hope you'll forgive me if I forgo my usual eloquence (or at least, verbosity) here. I love folk stories, I love the juxtaposition of duty and morality, I love your writing, and I love the way this story combines all of it. This was wonderfully tragic, and the hope it offered as it went on was all the sweeter for remaining a dream for the future. The comparison between Clyde's stoic love for his wife and his family despite their "eccentricities," and Typhon's redemptive-destructive love for his, worked wonderfully. I usually try to suggest something or offer a criticism when I comment, but I can't think of any such thing to say this time.
Thank you for sharing this; I really do mean it.
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Thank you for your comment. It is important to me.
The one thing that I would change in this story is Blythe's journey through the hidden paths of Arima. I wrote this for a challenge, and so I tried to keep the story short and to the point, but I really wanted to include a bit of business with Blythe encountering the Vixen and her arch-foe, Laelaps. The Vixen, as you recall, is the fox that can never be caught. The dog, Laelaps, is the hunter that no prey can escape. And so they are trapped in eternal struggle, like Bugs and Yosemite Sam, or the Roadrunner and Wile E. Coyote.
I saw this as a weird, cartoonish moment, presented as comedy but with a frisson of despair or, maybe, camaraderie. I imagined the Vixen looking back at her nemesis and saying, "It's just you and me, 'Laps. You ready to go on?" "Yep, yep, yep! Let's go!" And so they run through the Lands Below, the worst of enemies and the best of friends.
Well, that was the germ of my idea.
Strangely enough, Greek mythology and ponies work together in a very strange way, and are able to give rise to stories with very interesting themes.
I wish I could anything more, but John Perry below said everything else I could about the story. Amazing work!
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Oh, yes. I've touched on Greek history and mythology in a number of my stories. Captain Bucephalus ("Tonight I Shall Be Laughter") is named after Alexander the Great's horse. Commander Hurricane ("Hearth's Warming Eve: A Princess Promenade") is, in my telling, the grandchild of the mighty Pegasus champion Bellerophon. And even Roquefort Cheese ("The Rummy Business of Old Blooey") is a member of the Augean Society (cleaning the Augean stables was one of the Twelve Labors of Heracles).
Perhaps ponies work well in Greek myth because, under all the gods and goddesses, the Greeks retained a body of folklore about great beasts and magical animals, Aesop's fables being the most obvious examples. Were he alive today, I'm sure Aesop would be a brony.
Cloud Wander,
I had to go remind myself of why I remembered your name: The Boneyard and Tonight There Shall be Laughter. I can certainly see how this plays on a lot of the same strings as The Boneyard, but it just couldn't light a spark of interest in me. I suppose it just felt like mythology for the sake of it, not to actually tell any kind of story. That kind of world building has never interested me, so I don't hold it against you. I get there is is a story there, of sorts, but not one I can have any empathy with, which is generally my minimum requirement to really enjoy something.
-Scott
P.S. Blame Chris.
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I appreciate your input. I think I need to spend more time with my stories after I "finish" them. I think the urge to publish sometimes leads me to put a story out there before it's really done. I'll try to slow down a bit.
The pie sisters have an icon now (or maybe they each have their own, I can't remember), so you know.
Seattle's Angels directed me here. This story is masterful, and it doesn't even follow the "rules" of storytelling. You really got me at
I thought it was interesting characterization, but probably just a throwaway. But you did that deliberately; it was part of the story.
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Thanks for the heads-up. I've added the Pie Sister's icon to the story.
Well now, that was something else. I've been fascinated with greek mythology for a long time, but my knowledge is shallow. To see a writer such as yourself wield such depths of myth and weave them into such a tale is, lets say, pleasing. The style was appropriate and well-handled as well: It felt like I was reading a particularly good translation of an actual greek fable - if ever there were such a thing about little talking horses, that is.
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Actually, the original spelling can be translated as Ekidna, but consistency is more important than accuracy in fiction.
I like it. Plus, it makes sense, to a degree: What mortal lineage could spawn something so absurd as Pinkamena?
Plus, bonus points for including Typhon. I had been wanting to read/write something with him in it for a while now, so this landed in at just the right time.
Liked and faved, if to show my support.
Absolutely delish!
I love what you did with Greek mythology here, and fathers as well!
Regards,
Dafaddah
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I wish I had known that when I was writing the story. I had to keep reminding myself that, no, Echidna is not a spiny anteater.
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Her namesake is, though.
OK, not only do I recognize where that's from, I recognize the translator (John Ciardi, in case anyone's keeping score)
As opposed to, say, Alicorns, who see the heavens in wildflowers?
So Pinky has two sisters, Blythe and Inconnabula who go by Blinky and OH NOW WAIT A MINUTE...
Nicely done!
(The frightening thing, to me, is that this is turning out to be one of the wittiest and most erudite sites I've encountered on the Internet. And that includes my visits to Wittipedia and Something Erudite).
The part of fireworks was hilarious, which may not have been what you were going for.
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Actually, that was exactly what I was going for. I thought Echinda would delight in explosives.
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Names mostly went over my head, but it was interesting nevertheless.
Huh, turns out ponies and Greek mythos go together like wine and cheese.
Thoroughly enjoyable.
You know what I really love about this story? (Well, everything, but this one point sticks out to me.) In here, Clyde is NOT a bloody idiot who goes against the requests of a supernatural being for no reason other than stupidity or temper, like you have with pretty much every myth and legend with a fairy-wife.
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Thank you. I based Clyde's romance on a old Japanese tale of a wife that came to her husband in the snow, on condition that he never ask her name. Of course, eventually, in a thoughtless moment, the husband breaks his bargain and terror ensues.
Clydesdale Pie, in my imagining, is smart enough to know when he has a good thing and doesn't mess with it.
3378687 It ain't just Japanese tales; like, every culture I've read their myths, they have something like that. Of course, if nobody ever did something stupid, the story wouldn't have a plot, but meh.
Feel like writing sensible!Clyde into any other fairy tales?
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Hell, no.