Wayfarer

by The Plebeian

XXXIII

They lie on the grass, the small shacks of Lower Canterlot and the high-rising spires of Upper Canterlot lost in the distance behind, left a happy memory, a first and last revisiting. A map is unfurled between them, and two hooves, one of brown and one of a vibrant blue mark different points on the map. Their eyes meet. Her almond circlets reflect a disappointment and resignation, while his own atolls are marked with concern and compromise. The sun arcs up, quite nearly at the height of noon, though as before it sees nothing that it lights. Her hoof marks on the map a ridgy triangle named underneath “Foal Mountain,” and his marks a vast expanse of blue, written “The Silver Sea.”

Her will to continue, to call for one last venture, has surprised him, but a lovely surprise it is. He likes the thought of enjoying one last adventure with her, before an entirely new embarkation comes to pass. They could meet one more new sunrise, see one last venue. The wayfarer knows a wonderful place, but she has suggested her own. He loves Foal Mountain, though he fears for her health. She wants to please him one last time, perhaps, but mountain climbing with child is a bit too risky, even for one with such bold color as the wayfarer. Besides, there are greater venues for the peace of Foal Mountain, and the Silver Sea is not nearly as remote as the mountain. It disappoints him to refuse her wish, especially on their final lap, but it is for her own good.

She has always loved the mountains, but as she feels the heartbeat against hers, she knows as soon as she feels the parchment under her hoof that the destination simply cannot be theirs. She has not visited the sea before, and looks forward to the opportunity. She is sorry that already the child limits their travels, but it is simply the way things must be. Perhaps she needs a calmer venue as well, something easier to take in. She has heard the ocean described to her before, merely sand and then an endless blue beyond. It does not sound particularly interesting to paint, she thinks. Merely two base colors; a third if she counts the sky. Perhaps a few clouds, and that is all. She hopes there is far more than can be described.

There will always be restrictions, he thinks, but they are but small sacrifices. Is not love just as easily found and sustained in a city as a frontier? Can a place truly suppress all of his love? He doubts it entirely. He will find a way to love even more, he thinks. He simply cannot understand it yet. He has always known his future self to figure things out. As always, he adjusts once he meets the challenges anew. Only then does he understand his new wisdom.

One day, he thinks, he will think himself a fool. It is a rather strange thought. After all, he yet knows no other way to think. In fact, he rather likes how he thinks now. Should he already consider himself a fool? Hardly. There will always be new wisdom to find, and only so much can be gathered at a time. It is not his fault if he cannot gather all of it at once. The child will bring to him an entirely new domain of understanding, he thinks. As always, it will begin foreign, and become familiar.

At least there is some sort of plan, for now. There is no void ahead of them. She likes having a plan, an itinerary. As artistic as she is, structure is soothing. She has heard that many artists find it restrictive, uninspiring to any decent artist. Perhaps she is happy to be inept, then, for structure to her just leaves her one less thing to fret about in the present. She needs not wonder where she will next go, what she will next paint. It is already determined, defined. They say inspiration cannot be forced or scheduled, but she paints just as well.

Perhaps it is just a matter of personage, and hers is merely a minority. Strange how even art can be covered in such dogma. Still, she wonders how she will continue to paint. It will no longer be a case of painting whatever seems interesting at first glance, for those will be quickly expended in her first months wherever they settle. Perhaps it is merely a matter of finding something new each day, a constant revisiting. Perhaps she will add more detail to the smudges of color that populate her cities. She will slowly learn their faces, she thinks. It would be an excellent change of style, perhaps to take the emphasis off of the environment, place more emphasis on its inhabitants. She has tried it with the wayfarer, though she doubts any but their child will catch the same detail in her art.

She will like the ocean, he thinks. He has a few good memories left there, though it has never been a place he wished to stay for long. It will be a calmer landscape, a place where they can rest, just a moment, before their new lives begin. He does not think he has ever understood the ocean; perhaps he will this time. He knows a nice clean beach, that none ever seem to find. They can catch their breaths, and just be calm for once. He has come to appreciate the calm much more with her. He has far more to think about in the few lulls of his travels, and he is happy to use them in full. He wonders if he will have any such lulls with the child. Perhaps during the night, he thinks. The night always seems to have the best moments of quiet. Though it is their last excursion, it need not be some grand finale. Often, he thinks, a calm serves far better.