Blackacre

by Princess Woona

Lost and Found

14 January, Y.C. 970
Ponyville

Agnes didn’t particularly want to go outside. On a day like today, who would? The past few days had been almost warm — still parka weather, but warm enough to melt the topmost layer of snow. Which had immediately frozen over at night. Couple that with a fresh layer of powder and a blustery wind, and the weather was ideal for breaking a leg or two.

Not that that bothered her. She already had her injury for the year, and the bulky cast around her leg made her move slowly anyway. There wasn’t much risk of slipping when her top speed rivaled a snail’s.

Slow or not, though, she would have to get a move on. She only needed to check the barns and make sure that the windows were still sealed up tight and the animals had enough feed for the night. She had missed a window once a few years back; by the time she came by the next morning, half her livestock was frozen solid. A small farm like hers couldn’t afford that type of misstep. Though, now that it wasn’t a one-pony operation any more, things were looking up.

Agnes trundled to the door, picked up the lantern from its hook, braced herself against the cold wisps of air that even now slipped through the keyhole, opened the door, and nearly walked into a fairly startled pony.

“Can I help you?” she said, regaining her composure faster than the unexpected visitor.

“I, uh,” said the tan pony, rubbing her neck through a white jacket. Agnes didn’t recognize her, though that wasn’t saying much, given how many new folks had taken up residence in the town over the past month.

“Are you Agnes Smith?” she asked, recovering after a moment.

“That’s me,” she said. “You’re a little late for apple season, though. Can I help you?”

“Maybe,” said the pony. “I’m looking for someone, actually. Your niece.”

“My niece,” echoed Agnes, starting to get a bit uncomfortable with the situation, though maybe that was just the heat of the parka.

“Yes. Jackie. Jackie… Smith?”

“Ah.”

A pause.

“She’s not here right now,” said Agnes bluntly. “She’s out checking the barns.”

“I can wait. May I come in?”

“No,” she said quickly. “She’s, ah, checking the barns in the, ah, neighbor’s field.”

“Point me in the right direction, then, and I’ll be out of your mane.”

“I don’t know which neighbor.”

The visitor glanced down, took a deep breath, and looked back up.

“Can I speak with Jackie?”

“No,” said Agnes, pursing her lips.

“Look, I —”

“Go away.”

“It’s all right,” came a voice from within the farmhouse. Agnes turned to see Jackie looking at them from the kitchen, a fresh mug of hot chocolate in her hooves. She wore the pale blue bonnet she had been affecting recently, and under it, a resigned expression. “She already knows I’m here. No sense drawing this out.” Jackie shivered slightly. “And close the door, would you?”

Agnes reluctantly stepped aside, letting the stranger in, but instead of closing the door she went and stood in it.

“I’d better check on the barn before it gets dark,” she said. “But first, I’m going to have a few words with Doctor Turner.” She narrowed her eyes. “Patient privacy, my hoof!”

“Don’t do that,” said the pony quickly. “No one at the hospital said anything. Believe me, I tried to get them to talk.”

“I should have known,” said Jackie acidly. “The press always has ways.”

“And I’d like to know what’n’the hell those ways were,” added Agnes, “so they don’t happen again!”

“I’m not press,” said the pony, shrugging off her coat to reveal a shock of pink mane. “I’m Canterlot.” She extended a hoof. “Actually, I’m Margaret. From Canterlot, but just Margaret. I’m sorry about all of this. I didn’t mean to disturb, I really didn’t, but I just want to talk, if that’s okay.”

Jackie considered her for a moment, then nodded. “All right. Come in, I guess. Sit down.” She considered offering Margaret from Canterlot some hot chocolate, but decided against it. “Agnes, you should probably go check the barns.”

The older pony nodded, but she didn’t look happy about it. “If you say so.”

“I do.” Jackie attempted a smile. “I can still take care of myself, you know.”

“All right, all right,” said Agnes. “I’ll start with the far barn, if that’s okay. But you holler if you need me.”

“If I need you,” said Jackie with a meaningful nod, the request for privacy clear enough. Not that she didn’t trust Agnes; she was, after all, the only pony — well, one of two ponies now — who even knew she was still alive. She had a feeling, though, that this Margaret wanted to talk to her and her alone, and she wouldn’t go away until she got what she wanted. Fine, then; she’d give her an uninterrupted audience. With a bit of luck, this Canterlot pony would be gone in minutes.

The door closed with a slam, triggering a little snow flurry just outside the sitting room window. Jackie took her mug of chocolate, sat down across the coffee table from the other pony, and crossed her arms expectantly.

Margaret, for her part, licked her lips and grabbed at the bundle of documentation she had brought. The familiar feel of the folder under her hoof made her more comfortable. She hadn’t been expecting this. She hadn’t known what to expect, frankly, but it wasn’t this.

“I’m here to check up on you,” she started. “You vanished into the hospital, and nopony’s seen you since.”

“That’s how I like it,” sniped Jackie. “How did you find me?”

“There’s always documentation,” she shrugged. “And when there’s paperwork, there’s a way. Digging through paperwork is half of my job.”

“Paperwork that should be marked restricted.”

“Restricted access doesn’t mean no access.” Margaret opened the folder and offered an official-looking document with a half-dozen seals on the bottom. “And a piece of paper with the Princess’ signature opens a lot of file cabinets, you know?”

That caught Jackie’s attention. “The Princess wants to know about me?”

“Among other ponies,” she said evasively. “Look, that photo of you ran on the front page of every paper for a week. Whenever they talk about the Mane, the first shot is it coming down, the second is you. Every single time. That shot is number one in most of the —”

“And I don’t care,” said Jackie quietly.

“What?”

“It’s a great photo. I get it. So what?” She shook her head. “Means nothing to me.”

“But it means everything,” said Margaret. “You were there, you were a bystander, you were injured, and you’re front and center in the most famous photograph since V-B Day in Haymarket Square.

“That photo of you matters,” said Margaret, leaning in closer, “because other ponies have somepony to care about. Two hundred and thirty-one casualties is a number. That photo is a pony. Living, breathing, beautiful. You can ignore numbers. You can’t ignore that.”

“The photo of me matters,” echoed Jackie. “Why?”

“Because —”

“No,” she said, uncrossing her arms to spread them wide in a broad gesture. “What would you have me do? Why do I matter to you?”

Margaret took a breath. This was it.

“Because you matter to them.”

Jackie frowned.

“Come back with me. It doesn’t have to be much, it doesn’t have to be for long. If you didn’t want to, you wouldn’t have to say anything, even; you could come right back.” She waved a hoof towards the window. “All of Equestria knows who you are, and nothing can change that. The last thing they saw of you was that photo. They know a lot of ponies didn’t make it out of the audience that day. Show them you’re alive, that you’re okay. Give them hope.”

For a long moment, Jackie said nothing. Then, quite slowly, she put her mug down on the table.

“Hope.”

She stared Margaret down.

“You want me to give them hope.”

Jackie’s expression hardened.

“You just told me Equestria treats me like a set piece, only cares about me because I put a face to their death, and you want me to go out there and say wait, look at me, everything’s all right.

“You want me to go out and parade around and be this big symbol of how Equestria will survive, and we’re better than them, and we shall overcome? Hell, look at me. Do I look like the kind of pony who’s in any sort of condition to give hope to anyone?”

Margaret caught her gaze but her eyes slid away, unwilling to hold it. She had come in hoping to salvage something but it was falling apart, crumbling before her eyes. But the pieces weren’t falling at random; there was something there, something hiding in Jackie’s voice, something….

“I said, look at me. Do I care? The answer is no, because I don’t. I don’t care about their war, I don’t care about their causes. I just care about me, about Agnes, about waking up in the morning and going to bed at night, about not thinking too hard about yesterday or tomorrow, because I haven’t come from a good place and I’m not going to a good place either.” She stood now, planting a forehoof firmly on the table. “The pony in that picture is dead, for all I care. ”

With a single smooth motion she pulled off the bonnet, revealing a layer of gauze wrapped around the stump where a horn should be, the blood stains brown in places, fresh in others.

“Look at me, Margaret,” she commanded again, the bitterness in her voice cutting like a knife. “Do I inspire you?”

For a moment Margaret gawked; she had read the report but hadn’t expected to see it. Hadn’t expected….

And then, quite suddenly, it clicked.

“Yes,” she said quietly. “You are absolutely right.”

Jackie jerked back, surprised.

“The pony in that picture lost everything that day,” said Margaret gently. “She lost her friends, she lost her love, she lost her privacy. Equestria might have adopted her, but the pony in that photo died that day.”

Jackie slowly lowered herself into her chair, doing her best to keep her face as still as possible. One false move and she would lose what little was left of her composure.

“I’ve come out here for nothing,” reaffirmed Margaret. “The pony in that picture is dead. And maybe she’s a symbol of something, but she’ll never know it, because what’s left of her belongs to Equestria now.”

She set down the folder with an air of finality.

“The records at the hospital are out of date. I’ll have to adjust them. And I’ll have to bring the bad news back to m— to McNamare, but that’s all right. Because, to that pony, none of it matters any more.”

Margaret stood up, reached for her coat, and gave a little bow.

“I’m sorry for bothering you, Miss Smith.”

She slipped the coat on and walked to the door. As she reached for it, though, a small voice stopped her.

“Wait.”

Margaret paused, hoof on the handle. Jackie was still sitting, still in the exact same position, wasn’t even looking at her, but her voice had a different quality to it.

“It’s getting late, and there’s nothing interesting in town,” she said. Jackie’s expression was unchanged, but something in her voice was warmer, was genuine. “Stay for dinner?”

Margaret allowed herself a smile.

“I’d be honored.”

Comments

[Taffer]

“I’m Canterlot.”

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