Big Mac and the Reflecting Pool

by Warmblood

In the Forest

It is near midnight. The moon is high in the sky, though little of its light reaches the heart of the forest. Below, the nocturnal creatures are stirring. From the crickets in their uncountable numbers, to the raccoon that scampers amongst the ferns and fallen leaves. All around stretches the primordial forest, the Everfree in all its glory, elms and oaks and bristling pines. The scent of the forest hangs in the air, an earthy smell of damp pine needles, fallen leaves, and the sap of the trees themselves. Somewhere nearby, lost in the deep shadows, a mockingbird sings his song to the gentle swish of tree boughs swaying in time with the wind.

The glade is quiet tonight. In winter the snows sometimes bury the grass beneath a heavy blanket, drifts encircling the tree trunks in a pure-white embrace. Then the forest is bare but for the green sentinel evergreens. In spring, if winter does not overstay its welcome, new life emerges and everything is bright green as though the whole forest has returned to its youth, rejuvenated. Summer gradually prevails over spring, as the forest settles into a rhythm again. These days are long, and full of promise. Autumn comes without a sign, but one day a chill can be felt in the air, and then the forest will prepare for slumber once again. Tonight is an autumn night, but there is no chill in the air, not yet. Only a gentle breeze disturbs the air this night.

Fireflies dance in the air above the pool. Not many; the glade is too small for that, but enough to entertain the eye. One dips down near the edge of the water, flying over the carefully set stones and the moss that grows between them. He never touches down, but rather skims just above the water, green glow-light reflecting off the softly rippling surface. He circles the pond once, jetting up above the little stony brook that pours into the pool like a delicately held ewer of water. The sound of the burbling little waterfall is constant, so steady that it quickly fades to the back of the mind until brought forth again. A glimpse of the moon can be seen through the trees. Above the canopy the stars are bright, but beneath it the shadows are deep. Yet still a soft silvery glow bathes the glade, just enough to illuminate the clearing and the pool, a light that is radiant, rather than harsh or directional.

A rustle at the edge of the glade. Measured steps drawing nearer. Vines hang down from the grove surrounding the glade, thick leafy liana dangling from the branches of the nearest trees, shrouding the clearing from the rest of the forest. The steps pause. A hoof gently pushes aside the skeins of living vine. A red muzzle follows. His eyes are wide, his ears alert and held forward. He looks down for a moment as he inches forward, as though not quite sure the ground is solid beneath his hooves. His head turns left, then right, and cranes his neck up to look at the canopy overhead. The trees angle inward, allowing just a little bit of the night sky to show through the middle. A ray of moonlight streams down from this skylight, and the surface of the pool gleams like an altar set within a great cathedral, illuminated by a single divine beam. The bowl-like shape of the glade amplifies the effect.

The look upon his face is one of curiosity—and awe. Were he an older pony, he might simply turn and walk away, thinking himself unworthy of the beauty he saw before him. Were he younger, he might frolic on the grass and play in the waters of the pool, but never know the gravity of his find. He is young, there is no doubt about that: his muzzle shows no fine lines of age, nor telltale whitening of mask that would mark an older stallion. By the same token, he is not quite a colt. He has grown out of the long-legged gangliness of youth and begun to fill out. Yet the dreams of his foalhood remain fresh in his mind, unfaded by the ennui of the day to day routine, and it is thus that he can enter the glade, every sense attuned to his surroundings.

He steps into the glade, reverent as though fearful of disturbing some great dragon that slumbers nearby. His care can be seen in how softly he treads, like one crossing a slick-bottomed stream, setting a hoof down and testing his weight on it before stepping forward. Yet with each step he takes he still leaves a mark on the grass, where the dew on the blades has been disturbed, and as he moves his tracks slowly stretch from the edge of the glade to the edge of the pool.

He pauses for a moment at the water’s edge. Here he can see the little brook and its tumbling course through the mossy rocks. He can see the stones that line the pool, their sides flat and straight, their edges worn to a soft curve. All around the water they are set, in a neat circle with moss for mortar between the stones.

I think he senses the magic in the air, in the water and the stone. It is in the way he stands, as though transfixed upon something very distant from this world. He is an earth pony after all, a race with magic imbued so deep within themselves that some outsiders do not see it at all. His expression belies his wonder. On the outside all looks as normal, but inside he must sense the power that runs through the earth, a sense interpreted as overwhelming reverence for this place. This place is special. It is beyond his understanding. He knows this now, he sees it all around him and he smells it in the air.

He hesitates. His eyes are fixed on the dancing waterfall, but his gaze seems far away. I wonder if he could somehow see, somehow perceive what the water held for him. I wonder if he could choose to turn away, to leave the glade behind and never return. I wonder if it would change his destiny to do so.

He takes a deep breath, and lowers his gaze to the water. The surface of the pool is utterly still, covered by a sheen of silver light. The breeze has died away, but even the splash of the waterfall at the far side of the pool casts no ripple across the stillness. In the mirror-like reflecting shine, the young stallion sees the reflection of his own face upon the water. It is familiar and yet so strange by the moonlight. His own eyes stare back at him with an unsettling gaze, one that he cannot break.

The wind begins to stir again, rustling the leaves of the trees, swaying branches to and fro. But the water is still. There is no ripple, no wave that breaks the mirror. The fireflies have fled, or otherwise have been blown away, and aside from the wind an eerie silence reigns. The nighttime noise of the crickets is gone, no mockingbird songs, or owl calls, as though the rest of the world has faded away, and only the glade remains.

Still the young stallion remains fixed as though in a trance, at the familiar visage turned so strangely, somehow sterner, sadder; a reflection that is not his own. He is frightened, but he cannot turn away. His nerves would have failed a long time ago, yet as the face in the water fades to black, a new vision arises.

Red light of the land burning ablaze, the forests turned to ash. Earthquakes tearing the land, rending mountains in two. A jackal formed in flames, an abomination, the soulless beast arises. In his wake, never before seen atrocities, unrestrained savagery. Pony turned against pony, race against race. The dragons are slain, the cities burn. Fire erupting from the heavens as the oceans boil and die.

The vision goes on and on. Yet still he cannot turn away.

The stallion wonders if it is a nightmare he sees before his eyes, filled with such malice as ponies have never known. Yet he cannot turn from the madness he sees in the water, the vision of destruction, and the end of all things. He wonders if it can be true, what he has witnessed in the water of the reflecting pool.

“Yes.” I tell him. “It will all be true, should the evil prevail.” He sees my reflection before him on the waters of the pool. “It will be true, if you fail.” I know now that he has done more than just see the vision with his eyes. I know that he felt the magic of the vision, the unavoidable truth of the future, just as much as I did. I know that he now knows the truth because I see recognition in his eyes. He looks at my reflection—and nods.

He knows what he must do. It is all too clear now, to save the world from this bitter end, to ensure a life of peace for centuries to come, the sacrifice must be made. He enters the water, prepared to meet his fate.

That night, a chill wind, the herald of winter, blows through the forest, dragging with it leaden clouds of rain that pelt down throughout the night. The ground is soon turned to mud and mush, even the sheltered forest floor beneath the boughs of the great trees. With dawn the storm begins to break, and it is a few hours later, under still threatening grey skies, that Big MacIntosh returns home.

His fetlocks are thoroughly soaked with mud, his coat is entirely wet as though he spent the whole night in the rain. All the Apples are on hoof, having been about ready to send out a search party for him. Everypony is a mixture of furious at him for such a scare, and happy to have him back safe. The only pony who seems unaffected is Big MacIntosh himself. In the days to come, he explains to his family that he was out on a walk when he got caught in the rain. Silly me, he chides himself.

Yet from that night nopony could really say that Big Mac was the same. Somehow he is different, he has changed. He works harder in the orchard, sometimes to the point of exhaustion. He grows stronger, filling out with lean muscle and a strength beyond an average farm pony. He says little about his experience that night, and indeed, says very little in general after that night. Yet in his eyes burns a certain dedication, an undying memory of what he saw and experienced in the reflecting pool.

As the years pass, the memory remains. As the years pass, I watch the visions in the reflecting pool. I watch the red stallion that fights the beast. I watch through the trials and tribulations he faces. I see the world in ruins, and the flames of our final days. Yet I also see hope, the red stallion who runs as swift as the wind, his armor bright as the rising sun. He is the beacon of hope for us all, our one best chance for salvation from the end of all things. And as the years pass, I wait, in silence, under the boughs of the forest, and by the burble of the stream, for the one who will replace me one day, and send me at last to my final rest.

(Just a quick story posted for fun, because it was fun to write!)
Thanks to my off-chan editor, and to GaPJaxie for some encouraging words. Go read his story- Vision!

Comments

[rogerwarlock]

Oh please say u are going to continue this. saving the world, i like that.

[Valhuir]

I got the feeling the Narrator was the spirit of the glade - not a Genis Loci, but something like a Fair Folk, because the Narrator's reflection could be seen.

[Warmblood]

3287472 I'll take another look at that section. Thank you for giving feedback!
Hmm, yes I think you're right. The narrator has already spoken, and the overall impression ought to be fairly clear by context. That little portion was a tad redundant, and none too subtle.

[Ether Echoes]

Then the forest is a bare but for the green sentinel evergreens.

No, Moonlight Is A Bear.
Omit "a" there

First three paragraphs of this are a weather report. Those don't bother me too much, but this is nearly 1/3 of your story.

A black hoof

Big Mac's hooves are a slightly different colored orange than his hair.

I think he senses the magic in the air, in the water and the stone. It is in the way he stands, as though transfixed upon something very distant from this world. He is an earth pony after all, a race with magic imbued so deep within themselves that some outsiders do not see it at all.

There are no hints before this point that we were seeing this from the perspective of a character in the actual story.

~

Not much to say about this one. I might translate it as:
"Big Macintosh drinks an Ent Draught as a teenager and becomes a Silent Hero of Legend."
Super short stories don't have a lot of meat to pick out of my teeth after finishing. A little polishing could do this one good, though.
For one, there's absolutely no conflict. It's really just relaying an event that occurred. We don't really get insight into anyone's character or motivation - the mysterious voice narrating it has no identity and no clear motivation. Big Macintosh is an object rather than a person. Nothing really interacts.

Don't stop writing, though, you've gone too long without an update~!

[Warmblood]

3290687 Fixed. Fixed. Not sure how to improve (i.e. it has to happen at some point). Pretty much, although I'll talk with you later about a particular point!

[Twi-Guy]

3287685
I'm not sure what I just read, but it reminds me of how my trials have changed me and how the memory of them never truly leaves. I don't now if you are planning to continue this, but there is potential for an interesting "ghost voice" that moves behind the scenes to try to communicate to Big Mac. I don't know... just a thought.