Kirkwall - Stained Glass
Dawn could smell Brenda's nervousness as they passed the Highland Park distillery on the main road into Kirkwall's ruins. She kept glancing at the compound and came close to stumbling twice on the uneven surface. Sea fog lay over the shallow remains of cheap housing, drifting past them on an only just noticeable breeze. The sun turned the layer of fog above them a leaden yellow colour.
Small animals shuffled into cover and birds stopped singing with their advance, only to pick up their chirping when the travellers had passed by. Maybe as leader he should have been the one to walk beside the scarred little mare, but Harvest had already taken up that station. His eldest brother hadn't left Brenda's side since they were halfway between Stromness and Kirkwall. He found himself indifferent.
Mother was quiet. In fact, she had barely spoken a word since the incident two days ago, except for a harsh rebuttal when he tried to convince her to stay home. Her flicking ears showed that she was paying attention to her surroundings though and wasn't completely lost in her brooding. Salt Marsh at her side and the two large tribals who brought up the rear kept scanning the ruins for any sign of danger. They hadn't spoken anything either since they’d passed the distillery.
Solstice he hadn't seen since he'd thrown him out and for once he didn't mind his absence at all. It was all getting too much. You've pulled through worse, he reminded himself and tried to quell the following 'But nothing like this.'
The fast approaching meeting with the South Ronaldsays already felt like a lost cause. Or maybe it was rather like something that had become inconsequential in the light of recent events. They’d manage some form of cooperation some way or another eventually. It certainly wasn’t a pressing issue now.
A few hundred yards after the point where the remains of the city changed from rubble and grassy mounds to crumbling buildings, Brenda stopped and pointed at a large house near a fork in the main road. The wreck of a car sat close by, showing next to no rust. “Here it is,” she whispered. “And- and I buried him just over there.” After a short break she added, “And my trousers should be around here somewhere as well.”
He cast a glance at the little grave mound she was pointing at and sighed. “Well, let's have a look then.”
Her yellow coat took on a greyish hue around her muzzle. “Y-you want me to dig him out?” she squeaked.
“What?” He blinked. “No, of course not!” Did he really come across as awful as that to her that she'd think that? Well, you hit her and threatened to throw her out, no? With a weary sigh he shook his head. “I meant that we should see if we can find those leather trousers. Wouldn't be surprised if the dogs had taken them though.”
Hope lit up Brenda's eyes and she nodded eagerly before turning away to point towards where the main street took a left turn into the city centre. “I slept in the guest house here and I know I had them on my back when I heard the dogs!”
Salt Marsh sidled up to him as their group turned to follow Brenda. “What are you going to do if we don't find anything?”
He looked away with a soft snort.
“You already believe her, don't you Dawn?”
“Do you?”
“I- well...” Salt took a deep breath and let his eyes linger on the little mare for a few moments. “Yes. Yes I do. And I'm almost certain that you do too. Why exactly are we putting her through this then?”
“Because, Salt, this... those who don't want to believe her need proof,” he said with a tone of finality.
Salt cocked his head. “Right. Doesn't answer my original question though.”
“That’s correct.”
Salt gave him a sour look. “Come on! Don't leave me hanging now. You're becoming as bad as your father, cryptic and hiding behind empty phrases.”
He took a deep breath and swished his tail. “Am I now?”
When Salt Marsh hesitated to answer, he closed his eyes for a second, ears beginning to splay back. When he spoke again, the words left a bitter taste in his mouth. “Anyway. You wouldn't understand,” he stated and quickened his pace.
“Look, Dawn, I'm sorry!” Salt exclaimed and caught up in a trot.
“Then give it a rest!”
“I just want to know how you feel about- about all this,” Salt continued in a hurt tone. “How much is there to understand anyway?” He raised his voice while flattening his ears. “Dammit, Dawn, what is it?! I'm out of my depth with all of this already, I don't need riddles.”
He grit his teeth and stared straight ahead, his ears flattening against his skull as well.
“Stop ignoring me! If it's so much more than a 'yes' or 'no' to you then I want to understand why!” Salt cantered past him and into his way. “Hello? How about some leadership on this issue?!”
Broken asphalt crunched when he stopped up short, flared out his wings and rounded on Salt. Lumps of dirt and pieces of grass rained down from Salt's attempt to scramble out of reach, followed by a pained yelp when he received a bite in the shoulder anyway. Nostrils flared and forehooves spread, he watched the other stallion retreating behind the two tribals. His heartbeat throbbed in his ears, filling the quiet that followed the confrontation.
“Dawn?” Mother's careful enquiry broke the uneasy silence. “What is it?”
A hard look rested on the little colt who had asked about Father's mark again. 'You wouldn't understand.' That dreadful flat voice. He clenched his eyes shut. Mother ushered him out of the room. 'Dawn, I've told you! It hurts your father. Don’t bring up the past. Please?'
It took considerable effort to fold his wings and stand tall again. A deep breath. “Brenda!” he called out, startling the rest of the little expedition.
The mare in question took an unsure step towards him, looking ready to bolt. “Y- yes?”
“I...” he faltered and looked down at his hooves, acutely aware of the confused looks resting on him.
“Are you alright?” came the quiet, hesitating question from Springtide.
A deep sigh, followed by shaking his head.
“What... can I do for you?” Brenda asked, subdued.
Closing his eyes, he took a deep breath, then another. Finally he scraped a hoof over the ground, clenched his teeth and trotted over to the little mare. Halfway over, he spread his wings a little, making her flinch and back up a step. But he couldn't let himself stop now. When he reached her, he didn't hesitate even a moment but drew her into a hug. First with his wings, then with a foreleg around her withers.
She stiffened up completely. “I'm sorry,” he whispered into her ear, just above the prominent bruise he'd given her. “I'm so, so sorry.” He felt her relax a little, apprehension giving way to confusion. “I don't expect you to forgive me,” he continued in a louder voice and tightened his grip. “I don't even want you to forgive me. And...”
Brenda reached out a tentative foreleg to return the hug, almost losing her balance. “Thank you,” she said in a low voice, “But wh-”
“Because,” he cut in, “I want-” he broke off again and let go of her.
She was looking at him with wide eyes, confusion clear on her face.
“Because I was wrong and I really do believe you.” There was a pause, filled with nervous shuffling and a few quiet snorts from the others. “I should have said so right away. And I want to understand.”
Several hundred yards from where Brenda had said she'd lost them, they finally found her leather trousers. As predicted, they were chewed on and in a sorry state, but the pockets were still intact.
He watched as she gingerly stepped on the piece of clothing and bent down to open the zipper on one of them, grimacing as her muzzle touched the leather. He’d seen one depicted in one of Moorland’s books, but seeing one intact and working was something different. He bent down as well and marvelled at how neatly the tiny metal teeth lined up and fit together. Working Old Folk technology… his brother was going to be very happy indeed. If he had still needed convincing that Brenda was telling the truth, this would have done it for sure.
It took her several tries to get a hold on the slider with her teeth, but eventually she managed to open a pocket on either side. “Just hope it's still dry,” she murmured and closed her eyes for a second. When she took the trouser legs between her forehooves and shook them, two items fell out. One looked like a small, thick book made of leather and the other was a white and shiny rectangle. A few further shakes produced some pristine keys on a ring and a little lump of metal in a red casing that had a white cross on it.
An unexpected, sad little smile briefly touched her lips and she opened a side pocket as well and shook the trousers once more. A tool fell out, bright green and looking like a short brush. On its end was added a short piece of metal that looked a bit like a bent screwdriver.
He watched as Brenda placed the thing with the other items and sat down on her haunches. The other members of their group edged closer and soon stood in a loose circle around them.
“Right,” he began in what he hoped was a confident voice, “Let's have a look then.” Trying to ignore the tight feeling in his chest, he pointed at the most familiar item.
Brenda gave the keys a little push with a hoof. “These?” A deep exhale. “My car, my flat,” she began and then swallowed. She continued much quieter, “Tim's shop, my parent's house and this one here is... was for the stable's tool shed.” She held up a hoof to forestall his next question. “That's my phone,” she said and pointed at the white thing.
A soft prod with his hoof produced nothing but a humourless chuckle from Brenda.
“There's no way in hell you could use this with hooves, even if the touchscreen worked with them. Which I doubt.” With a snort she pushed it aside. “Battery's dead anyway now.” Her ears were beginning to splay back. “Who cares. That thing is my Swiss army knife. No? It's basically a little tool kit that you also have zero chance to use with these.” She held up her forehooves again and the bitterness in her voice was tangible.
He let her have a few seconds before asking the question he'd been dreading to ask. “Do you have a picture?” When he saw her close her eyes and give a tiny nod he realized that this was it. “Can I see it?” he asked in a low and unsteady voice.
With a slow motion she pulled the little leather book towards her. After she managed to open the button holding it shut she nosed it open, revealing several compartments with colourful cards. She opened her mouth as if to say something. Instead she looked down, shook her head and pointed at one of the small cards in there.
“May I?” he asked.
When she didn't object he bent down to take the card, yet the smell made him hesitate. Scenting the thing was a strange experience, intriguing and at the same time somewhat unsettling. Alien. Not unpleasant though, just not something he'd be able to put into words right away. He snorted and shook his head. Carefully he stepped on the left edge and brought his right wing down, slipping a primary under the card. A little wriggling loosened it enough to allow him to grab it with his teeth.
It was a pale pink rectangle with a wavy pattern of slightly darker lines and several lines of text on it. The first thing that caught his eye was a blue rectangle with the white letters 'UK' encircled by yellow stars in the top left corner. Below that was a little black and white portrait of one of the old folk, a young woman with long and smooth dark hair.
On the right side, under the header 'Driving Licence', there was a numbered list. Most of it didn't make much sense to him but for the first three items.
1. Brenda
2. Sutherland
3. 01-06-91 United Kingdom
A chill crept down his spine as he stared at the little thing, and he forced himself to close his eyes for a moment and take a deep breath. Beside him, the little mare started to cry. For the longest time he just stood there, staring into empty space with a feeling of numbness. 'With our stupid, fucking hooves.'
No one dared to interrupt him until he finally shook his head and tried to focus on the here and now again. He cleared his throat. “Brenda? We should let the others have a look as well,” he said and rose to his hooves. “Walk with me a little?”
She nodded in silence and followed him.
A hundred yards later they came to a shallow pond where he bade her sit down next to a willow tree. He opened his mouth to say something but thought better of it. 'I can imagine how you feel'... what an empty thing to say. He was certain that he couldn't, since he wasn't even sure how he himself felt. Instead he watched the clouds reflected on the water pass by, listening to the soft wind in the leaves.
To his surprise it was Brenda who spoke first, her voice still thick with tears. “I don't blame you for not believing me, it's... it's pretty ridiculous, no?”
“Yes,” he breathed, “yet here we are.”
“I do blame you for hitting me though.”
He winced.
“As you should.” A deep sigh. Turning his head to look at her he continued, “I’m not sure what I can offer you in compensation though, other than affirming your place at my table and amongst my family.”
A soft exhale accompanied the small smile that lifted the corners of her mouth. “That's plenty enough.” She turned her head to look at him as well. “You know that you sometimes sound like a young chieftain right out of a folk tale?”
“I do?” he said, slightly taken aback.
“Yeah.” She looked back at the pond. “Those were rough times, and in a way not too different from here. Guess I shouldn't complain too much about a bruise or two.” She held up a hoof when he wanted to protest. “Don't. It happened. It's not alright, but I've had worse already.” A little chuckle. “A few weeks ago I'd have been devastated by something like that, now I'm just happy you didn't kick me out.”
“I'd never do that!”
“I know,” she said with a little smile. “I think you're a good man at heart. Or pony.” She put a hoof to her chin. “Don't know how I'd have reacted to finding out that my dad had lived such a lie.”
He clenched his eyes shut, feeling a lump in his throat. Not trusting his voice, he just shook his head. What was there to say anyway? The two orange saddle bags said enough, he was now certain that the mark didn't lie. He was a direct descendant of one of the old folk, just like his brothers, no matter if he was prepared to accept that or not. Everything just fit together too well.
“Wish I knew what he looked like,” he said in a low voice, feeling the old bitterness well up. “Or just who he really was. He never talked about anything from the past. Nothing.” He kicked a small stone into the pond and watched the ripples. “Is 'Scapa' even a real name?”
She cocked her head before slowly turning to him again. “I... don't think so. Never heard it being used for anything but the name of the distillery and the flow.”
“But why? So much of what happened makes sense now. Why just break with everything?”
“The stuff in your library. Maybe he was there just after it happened and that's the way he tried to cope?” A shrug. “I was busy not being eaten alive and then being adopted by a bunch of talking horses and then being outed as an alien. Not sure if I'm coping or just rolling with it.” She managed an actual little laugh at that which made him smile in return.
He cleared his throat and answered, “I'll help you with it if I can. That's a promise.” The little nod and warm smile she gave him in return felt good, and he held out a hoof for her to bump.
“I'll be there for you too,” Mother’s voice came from behind, making both of them jump. None of them had noticed her careful, quiet hoofsteps. The fur under her eyes was still matted, but the gloominess had receded. “Maybe we can help each other?” She cocked her head at the silence that followed. “Did I interrupt something?” she added with a hint of that little wry smile he so hated and loved.
Before he could reply, Brenda rushed over to her and buried her head in Mother's mane.
Mother gave a little laugh and nuzzled her neck. “Let's try this again little one,” she said in a tender voice.
With a long sigh he joined them, embracing them both with his wings. The pressure on his chest finally dissolved when Brenda didn't flinch at the touch but gave a soft nicker in response. A moment later his brain caught up with his ears and he snorted in amusement, folding up again. Brenda's bewildered gaze and subsequent blush was delightful.
“So we take it from here,” Mother said with a chuckle.
When they went back to the others, a subdued Salt Marsh walked up to him. “Sorry, Dawn,” he murmured.
He felt all eyes rest on him and he sighed inwardly, looking at the other stallion with ears halfway back. Maybe he should take Brenda's comment to heart. So he arched his neck and flared out his wings halfway and made sure his voice was calm and steady. “Apology accepted. Next time you have a problem with me, speak to me in private.”
Salt tucked in his tail even more and managed to give the impression of looking up to him despite being of the same height as his leader. The blue stallion nodded with wide eyes. “Will do!” he hurried to reply.
Out of the corner of his eyes he saw his elder brother give a minute nod.
Brenda walked past him and regarded him with the hint of a smirk. When she reached the relics of that other life she took a deep breath and sat down before them once more. He saw her swallow and close her eyes for a moment before she spoke in a voice once more thick with emotion. “I'm gonna keep these.” She started gathering the few things but paused and added, “Maybe they'll be useful some day.”
He softly shook his head and sighed. “Hey,” he began in the hope of lightening the mood again. “I didn't get around to ask about that thing there,” he said and pointed at the strange brush-thing.
To his pleasant surprise, her expression shifted from downtrodden to a kind of wistful amusement. “Don't know why I always carried that thing around wherever I went. It's a hoof pick.”
“A what?”
“A tool to clean hooves. When...” she hesitated, then shook her head with a snort. “When a horse has to carry a rider, there's extra weight on the hooves. So before you take her out you make sure there's nothing lodged there that could cause discomfort. Also, if you ride on roads there could be all kinds of stuff stuck there afterwards, so you do it again when you’re done.”
He blinked. “You had a mare that would let you sit on her back?”
Brenda cleared her throat and all of a sudden seemed unwilling to meet his eyes. Or face anyone for that matter. “I- I was actually a pretty good rider. I think.”
Mother spoke up. “What do you mean by good rider? It was her who did all the work, wasn’t it?” She frowned. “You just had to sit there.”
“Uhm…” Brenda rubbed her fetlocks together. “We were- I mean horses were- they couldn’t talk. And, you know, it was all about teaching them how to respond to position, leg pressure and, you know…” A brief pause. “Reins to make them turn their heads and- and stuff. They were really pretty dumb compared to today.” She ducked her head at the resulting explosion of chatter around her. “I mean to you! Me!” she squeaked.
He ruffled his wings in discomfort and shook himself a little before realising he was doing it. “All of you stop!” he exclaimed. When the noise had died down he addressed Brenda again. “I’m- I’m not sure I like this.” He swished his tail. “But I guess you treated her well?”
“Of course I did! I loved her!”
“You wouldn’t have a picture of her as well, would you?”
She bit her lip and looked away. “No. Wish I had. She was really pretty.” A deep sigh. “Her coat was that kind of yellowish off-white and her mane was all kinds of grey with brown strands in it. And she had that really pronounced dark stripe down her back.” Her expression had turned from uncomfortable to wistful. “She cost me quite a bit of money. The very picture of a Fjord pony, just like Mum here. I called her Freya, don’t know if she had a name in ‘horse’, but-”
“What.”
Brenda clamped her mouth shut with a mortified expression and snapped her head around to face Mother, blushing fiercely.
An awkward silence followed. Finally, Mother cleared her throat and scraped a hoof over the ground, fixing Brenda with a flat stare. “You will tell me all about that when we get home. In private.”
He felt it necessary to intervene before the situation could evolve any further and cleared his throat. “Right, Brenda, enough of that for now. I'm curious; how would you use that hoof tool thing then?”
She gave him a relieved look. “Well, I just made the horse lift a hoof and-”
“Like this?” He said and lifted a foreleg.
“Uh... y-you want me to...?”
He couldn't help but grin. “Of course.”
Brenda looked down at the tool, her ears flicking about. Finally she bent down and sniffed it before closing her teeth around the mid part of the handle. She gave him a nervous glance but looked away again and hurried over to his side. “'ur't I ave' o-” She spat out the tool again and took a deep breath. “I'll stand alongside you but facing in the other direction. Then you do as I say.”
He had to chuckle at that which made her blush in return. “Don't worry,” he said before she could utter the apology that surely was coming. “Proceed.”
With an uneasy swish of her tail she positioned herself at his left foreleg and picked up the tool again. Her sides showed her taking a deep breath before she hooked a fetlock around his leg from behind at knee height. Sliding her grip down his leg, she exclaimed “'oof!'” with far more authority than he’d expected.
He found himself lifting his hoof off the ground without hesitation and felt her shift her grip. Using both her forehooves she bent his leg so that the underside of his hoof pointed upwards. It was the strangest mix of feeling trapped and secure at the same time.
When he turned his head to look he could see her trying out different angles with her head before she seemed satisfied and went to work. There was a scraping sound and a weird sensation around his frog followed by the slight tickle of a brush. The procedure was over in a few seconds. “'own!” she ordered and he planted his hoof on the ground again.
Brenda turned around, hoof pick still in her mouth, some strands of mane over her eyes and with a bit of fresh dirt on her muzzle. In addition to that, her cheeks were burning. “Easier than I thought,” she murmured after dropping the tool again. There was some drool on it. “Sorry Dawn... I- that was how I did it. Or as close as it gets. Sorry for ordering-”
He lifted the newly cleaned hoof. “It's fine,” he chuckled. “And it certainly worked!”
Mother huffed. “You're better at making him do some hoof care than I ever was. Please keep her around, Dawn.”
Brenda looked away as her face managed to get even redder. “I- I’ll have to do all of them now,” she said in a strained voice. “Or you'll walk unbalanced.”
“Well then,” he replied with a little smirk and took the weight off a hind hoof, “By all means.” The rest of their group took that as a cue to surround them in order to get a good look. After Brenda was done and walked off to clean her muzzle in the little pond, Harvest came up to him. “If you're done fooling around, are we going to go further in?”
He refused to take the bait. “Yes. Since Brenda's obviously told the truth, I want to see if there is any trace of others like her. Or would you rather turn back and go home?”
Harvest gave a lopsided smile. “With you all the way, dear brother. With you all the way.”
When they set out again, he felt renewed purpose and took the lead. Rather than the loose group from the beginning, the seven now walked in formation with the two mares in the middle. The fog had lifted during their break and the main road into the city lay before them in bright sunshine. Brenda had slung the leather trousers over her back and she and Mother were chatting in low voices. He realized he'd never been that deep into Kirkwall. It was thrilling.
“Dawn?” Brenda called out, sounding unsure. She pointed to the ruin of a small house with a little tree growing in it. “This is where I came back,” she continued, subdued.
He took in the sad remains and wondered how it might have looked those hundred and twenty years earlier. How would it feel to depart a life you thought secure and be dropped into a wholly alien one, without any notice at that? He shook his head. The long nights of winter would be a good time for this, but not now.
“Do you need a moment?” he asked.
She looked at her hooves. “I... no. I don't think so.” A long pause. “There's nothing here anyway.” Closing her eyes she shook her head and took a few calm breaths. After a moment she looked up at him and declared, her voice firm, “Let's go.”
A little smile formed on his muzzle and he nodded, relieved. As they ventured further into the city he began to notice something that was markedly different from the open land. Trees. Fully grown stands of young trees, loosely grouped within the now much better preserved ruins. Looking around, an idea formed in his head. Here was, in other words, a lot of timber and firewood. So far he'd never thought of the city as a source for anything but old world relics. Because Father never had as well. He grinned.
Just minutes later he got an answer to the question of why the city centre had turned into something resembling a forest. A series of barks was audible to the east of their position. As he contemplated how the presence of predators would have made it possible for most saplings to take root and reach maturity, it took him a few seconds to realize that the others had stopped.
Looking back, he saw Mother nuzzling a wide-eyed Brenda and trying to reassure the little mare. With a sigh he turned and trotted back the few yards. “Keep a tight formation from now on!” he commanded. “Harvest, you stay at Brenda's side.” When Harvest had acknowledged the order he turned to Brenda, hating himself. “Brenda, pull yourself together! You're not alone, and if you panic you’ll put all of us at risk.”
Mother glared daggers at him. “How can you say something like that to her after what she's been through?! At least give her some time!”
“I want to be out of the city again before dusk and I want all of us to be unharmed. Either we continue with her or we all leave if she can't handle it. I'd very much prefer to stay after what we've learned though. We aren't in any real danger if we just don't lose our heads.”
Mother opened her mouth but Brenda held up a hoof before she could deliver a retort. “Mum, he's right,” she croaked and swallowed heavily. “I'll manage.”
Mother looked crestfallen and nuzzled her again. “Are you sure little one?”
“Yeah, I- I'm not backing out now.” she replied, still shaky. “I promise, Dawn.”
He cocked his head, giving her a sceptical look. Inwardly he sighed a sigh of relief. “Alright then. Let's go. Mother, you stay close behind her.” He noted with some satisfaction that she complied without hesitation.
Brenda tried to put on a brave face. “I think we should continue down Bignold Road. Uhm, that’s the one we’re on. After the next bend to the left we'll be close to the centre and St Magnus. That's where I'd have gone if I'd come back in the centre or down at the harbour.”
He gave her an encouraging smile. “We'll do that then, after all you know this place much better than I do. Let's go.”
Apart from fallen chimneys and a roof that had caved in here and there, most houses appeared to be in a fairly good shape. Many windows and doors were still intact, if weathered and opaque of course, due to their frames not being made of wood. Neat, low sandstone walls still lined the street, their wrought iron fences covered in rust but still looking quite solid.
Why hadn't father set up his settlement here? It wouldn't have taken as much work to maintain as it did in Stromness. Or had the predators moved in too quickly? If only he new more about it. If only.
With no one to keep them open, the former front lawns had turned into dense thickets of Rhododendron. Here and there a few light blue and purple flowers remained on the branches. In late spring or early summer, the display had to be a breathtaking sea of colours. Here and there a few sycamore trees had managed to take root and outgrow the smothering undergrowth. Now they formed a sparse canopy high overhead while their roots pushed up the concrete slabs of the pavement. In the cracks, more shoots of the ornamentals were already emerging, forcing the little expedition to walk around or in some places push through the resulting hedges.
Where a hedge was wide enough, the inside was devoid of any leaves due to the lack of light. While inside the second of its kind, Salt called out for them to stop. “I think I found something,” he said and pointed at the ground to his left.
There, between the thick branches, was what looked like a well trodden path. After clambering over the first few branches it started to look more like a natural tunnel. Here and there branches were bent back, twisted or broken, making progress fairly easy. “We'll have a look,” he stated and walked past Salt. “Brenda, Harvest, you come with me, you others stay here, there isn't too much space already.”
The path followed the shape of the natural protective tunnel until it reached what had once been the front lawn of a town house. In the green twilight, they entered and walked along the side of the house in tense silence until they reached the entrance a few moments later.
Kept dry by the evergreen plant cover, the door was in better condition than he expected and wouldn't budge when pushed. He was contemplating how they'd get inside when Brenda walked up to him, gave the door a look and pushed down the door handle. It swung inwards with a quiet creak. He sighed.
Inside it smelled of stale air and old textiles with a note of mould and dry rot. The worn doormat still proclaimed 'Welcome' and beside it sat two pairs of shoes, the leather dry and brittle with age. To the right was a steep staircase with faded pictures, one still on the wall and the rest lying on the steps. At the upper landing the wallpaper was peeling off, revealing damp spots on the plaster.
“Hello?” he called out. “Is anybody here?” Silence.
The door to the living room was ajar. He nosed it fully open and entered, stopping dead in his tracks a few steps in. Dust motes danced in the few rays of sunlight that fell through the windows and broke the green twilight. There, around an open fireplace, somebody had built a camp. A sofa stood in front of it, covered in blankets and sheepskins. On a coffee table there sat a kettle, a pot and a pan as well as several knives, two wooden spoons and a spatula. A few shrivelled up apples lay beside them.
Long fence posts had been wedged in between floor and ceiling behind the sofa. Thick carpets had been hung from them with crude fixtures, thus forming a little room inside the room. Wood ash filled the fireplace, with a few charred pieces of wood around the edges. At the far side of the room there was a large amount of logs and branches, stacked neatly along the walls. An axe, its handle covered in tooth marks, still leaned against a chopping block that stood in a circle of wood chips.
The sofa sported an indentation that would fit Brenda's size and had some bright cyan hair clinging to the surface.
“Hello?” he called again, trying to ignore the undisturbed layer of dust covering every surface.
Brenda gave a defeated sigh. “Give it up, Dawn,” she murmured. “They're not coming back.”
“I know,” he replied. “I wish... I don't know.” He sighed and flicked his head at the entrance. “It's of no use. Let's head out.”
Harvest, who'd stood by in silence and with an unreadable expression on his face, fell in behind Brenda as they left. “Coming closer,” he commented when he’d stepped outside and pulled the door shut again. The barks were clearly distinguishable now. “They're downwind, so I guess we'll have company soon,” he added, matter-of-factly.
“I'm okay, Dawn,” Brenda told him in a valiant attempt not to show fear.
It almost worked as well, and he nodded his acknowledgement. After relaying their findings to the others they set out again. Nobody spoke.
Further down the road, the evergreen jungle receded and was replaced with a closed canopy of huge beech trees and sycamores. A thick layer of damp leaf litter covered the cracked and distorted road surface, making for treacherous footing. Ferns and moss grew on the old stone walls. Up ahead, the red brick walls of Kirkwall's St Magnus Cathedral were visible through the light undergrowth. The church stood bathed in sunlight, its lone central spire still intact and jutting up above the trees.
Brambles and small trees had claimed most of the little graveyard surrounding St Magnus in small patches. The gravestones tilted in every direction and a great number had fallen and lay broken, slowly being covered by detritus and grass. Close to the entrance there stood an undamaged little red car.
“Brenda, what do you make of this?” he asked, careful not to sound commanding and trying to ignore the sound of the roaming predators.
The little mare took a deep breath, nodded to herself and then walked up to the vehicle. “It's... It's like the one I found, just newer.” She cocked her head. “Look, there's even a little air left in one of the tyres.” Guess it was parked here or just trundled to a halt because it's uphill.” She peered through the windows. “The keys are still there and... oh no.” She swallowed, “There's a baby car seat.”
Mother gasped. “Brenda, is there a foal in there?!”
Brenda shook her head. “No. But... dammit I don't know! I don’t know what happened, even if it happened to myself.” She sat on her haunches and dragged the backside of her front hooves over her face. “Nothing of this makes any sense. All I know is that the first thing I'd have done here is to try the church for shelter.”
He nodded. “Well then.”
They had just filed through the gate when Harvest announced, without much discernible emotion, “We have guests.” He moved right in front of Brenda, planted his forehooves a little apart and lowered his head somewhat.
Between the brambles and gravestones, seven canine shapes emerged. “Formation!” Dawn snapped. He cast a quick glance at Brenda who stood wide eyed and ear flattened against her head. “Brenda,” he spoke evenly. It seemed to break her out of it long enough to make eye contact. She shook her head and snorted but seemed to get her breathing back under control. He nodded in return, giving her a grim but acknowledging smile.
The dogs barked to each other and fanned out a little, but then simply sat down again.
“They're going to follow us all day now, just in case. Annoying pests,” Harvest spat. “How about we just make them lose interest now?” He scraped a hoof along the ground.
“No.” He regarded his brother with a flat look. “I don't want any injuries. There aren't enough of them to be any real danger anyway. Just put up with them.”
“Look, Dawn,” Harvest began.
“I'm not having this discussion!” he cut him off, flaring out his wings for emphasis.
His elder brother took a step back, thereby giving Brenda a free line of sight. “Alright, alright. Can I at least have permission-”
“It's them!” Brenda exclaimed.
“You know them?” came the bewildered question from Salt.
“See that one!?” she said, pointing at what looked like the leader. A gash ran along the dog's face in a diagonal line and through where there once had been an eye. “I know him! He wanted me for lunch!”
“Brenda,” he said in a stern voice and lifted a hoof.
“He tried to fucking kill me!” she shouted. “Get them away from me!”
He was aware of the dogs moving, whether out of uncertainty or with a plan in mind to use his group's disarray he couldn't say. “Brenda! Keep it together!”
Before he could do anything, Brenda shouldered Mother aside and planted herself between him and Harvest.
“Fuck off, you bastards!” she yelled at the leader. “You're not getting me!”
Curse her! He turned and was about to shove her back when an amused Harvest interrupted him.
“Dawn. Look.”
He followed his brother's gaze and blinked, nonplussed. Their leader had risen to his feet and was slowly backing away, his one eye fixed on the shouting pony. The rest of the pack looked unsure of what to do, two of them mirroring their leader's reaction.
The dog looked over his shoulder and gave a growl followed by a distinctively wary short bark. A few tense seconds later the pack turned away one by one and disappeared between the bushes.
When the soft rustles of vegetation had subsided, he exhaled deeply and shook his head. “What on earth was that about? Brenda?”
“I- I don't know.” She was still looking with suspicion at where the dogs had vanished. “The one with the scar was with the pack that hunted me.”
Harvest smirked at her. “Nice. How many did you get?”
“I- uh- what?”
“You scared him. I bet there’s a reason.”
“I’m not sure how that happened. The eye, I mean.” She rubbed the scars on her chest with a forehoof, shuddering. “I- I kinda ran down and trampled their leader though.”
Harvest’s smirk turned into a smile. “Looks unlikely that they'll bother us again then.” He nodded at her. “Remind me to ask you about the full story.”
“I- okay- ” She didn’t get any further due to Springtide rushing over to fuss over her.
Yes mother, that’s your ‘little one’. Taking a deep breath, he decided to not admonish Brenda for disobeying him. No need for animosities right now. “Let's move on. You would have sought shelter here then?”
“It's the sturdiest building and it's a landmark.” Brenda sighed. “Doesn't look as if anybody's been around here though. You know, I'd hoped - ah, I'm sorry. Wishful thinking I guess.”
“It's okay,” he said with a little smile. “I already believe you.”
“Thanks.”
He cocked his head at the glum tone. A moment later he lifted a foreleg and dragged the tip of the hoof down between his eyes and along his muzzle with a sigh. Of course. Way to miss the point. “Hey, let's have a look inside. Maybe there are some clues.” As sombre as the situation was, he couldn't help but smile at the way her good ear perked up at that.
As they walked westward along the southern side of the cathedral, he noticed the sandstone bricks had suffered a lot of erosion over the years. Wind and water had eaten away at them and given the wall a brittle patchwork pattern. The original design of alternating red and yellow bricks only added to what looked like a tapestry in stone. Hardy grasses and birch saplings had found their first hold in the increasingly brittle surface as well.
When they reached the small plaza before the cathedral’s front entrance, they got a good look at the oldest part of Kirkwall. Most houses that lined the street were still more or less intact, even the chimneys still sat on the roofs thanks to their broad construction. Still, roof slates and fallen masonry littered the patchy meadow that once had been the main street. Here and there a window had fallen out of a rotting frame.
Directly opposite of where they stood, an imposing building that reminded him of the Stromness Hotel had lost two spires and subsequently most of its eastward roof. No matter how well preserved, all the houses were in the process of being reclaimed by nature. A feeling of pride welled up in him as he thought about how his settlement in Stromness appeared in contrast. With our hooves.
“Look,” Brenda said, interrupting his musing. “All the windows at ground level are smashed. Most of the doors as well.”
His mind turned to the little dwelling they’d found on their way. Those who did this, had they hoped to find supplies? The damage appeared to be very old, even seen from their vantage point. He shuddered. Maybe he hadn’t even been born when they appeared here and died soon after. Maybe they managed to live a long life here all on their own or somewhere else on the mainland. He’d never know. Had Father known about this? He closed his eyes and took a long breath. “Let’s look inside,” he said and turned toward the entrance.
Shattered sandstone bricks littered the area in front of the stairs, the remains of some ornamental structures that seemed to have sat atop the front wall. The gravelly remains crunched underhoof as they picked their way to the front door. It wasn’t very broad but thrice as high as him and the wood still looked sturdy. And it wouldn’t budge.
Brenda came up beside him and gave it a tentative push as well. “Hm. That door was never locked.” He was about to say something when she put her forehead against the door, firmly planted her hooves and pushed. That produced a dry creak and a narrow crack appeared between the wings. It was followed by a pained screech of metal on stone and a very final wooden crunch.
“It’s blocked! Someone’s barricaded themselves in there!” She put her head close to the gap. “Hello!?” Silence. “Dawn! We’ve got to get in there!”
“You two,” he called out to the two tribals, “Get over here and see what you can do.”
They were both about two heads taller than himself, yet the door wouldn’t move even before their combined strength. Both were already grunting with exertion when Brenda gave a frustrated snort and walked over again. “Let me help.”
She ducked under the surprised horse and put her head against the door again, between and below the others. “Alright. Now!” A moment later there was a grinding noise followed by a crash and three panting quadrupeds falling into a heap on the floor. As soon as they’d disentangled themselves he entered as well.
A baptismal font lay broken on the floor amidst some piled up chairs, another door and several pieces of balustrade. Before them, the nave of St Magnus cathedral opened up.
The merriment caused by their less than elegant entrance soon ebbed away. The entranceway layout muted any sounds from the outside, leaving them in stillness. From somewhere above there came the flutter of small bird wings, but that soon disappeared as well.
The building seemed impossibly high from the inside. Red stone pillars, twice as broad as a pony, reached up to support a higher storey of arcades. They in turn bore the arches that held up the roof in an elaborate pattern far above.
Rows of dusty chairs lined the nave, on the righthoof side soiled by years of bird droppings in several places. The smooth wooden floor was covered in dust, and here and there in the crumbs of fallen plaster. Every nook and cranny held old cobwebs which also covered many of the chairs like dirty, half transparent blankets.
Their hoof falls echoed through the long hall as they slowly walked down the length of the nave in single file along the central aisle. Sunbeams fell through the double rows of high windows, making dust motes glitter in the sharp light. Probably important humans, set into the glass and lit from behind, gazed down on the little troupe. Ancient stone carvings on the walls. Tattered banners.
He felt small. Insignificant. Out of place.
When they reached the last row of chairs and the space opened up, his breath caught in his throat. There was a large ornate structure made of lacquered dark wood that bore a cross on its centre. Before it on the ground were two woollen blankets, a lump showing under them.
He ruffled his wings and swallowed before rallying himself to take the next step forward. When he put a hoof to the blankets and pushed them up a little, the metallic smell of dry decay filled his nostrils. He shrank back.
“What is it?” Brenda asked in a hollow tone.
When he turned to look at the little mare, his heart sank as he saw in her eyes what was about to happen. He bowed his head and took a few steps back. He would be the last person to prevent her from seeking answers, whatever those might be.
Brenda already had tears in her eyes as she walked past him, but she nevertheless bowed down and took the edge of a blanket in her teeth. He heard her retch. In one swift motion she lifted her head and walked backwards, pulling the blankets with her. She let go with a shriek.
A pegasus stallion and a unicorn mare still held each other embraced in their bony forelegs that poked out of ill fitting winter jackets. Their empty eye sockets were locked on the other one’s face. Between them, half covered by what remained of the stallion’s dark blue wing, rested a tiny unicorn foal wrapped in a lambskin. The floor under them was speckled with what looked like a coarse brown powder. A spider scurried away, leaving tiny marks in the dust.
Patches of dry hide still clung to the carcasses, revealing the mare’s coat colour as off-white and the stallion’s as of the same colour as Father. The foal had been light blue. The light falling through the large stained glass window, set high into the eastern wall, cast beautiful, multicoloured spots all around them.
Close by was a small pile of broken chair legs, splinters from smashed wood panelling and scraps of clothing. Several tiny sticks lay at one side, most of them broken, together with a small box with red sides and a colourful picture on its front.
Last winter had been particularly harsh, with temperatures well below zero for over a month and with several blizzards. All the nicer to share bread and warmth amid close friends and family during the dark months, huddled together in their dwellings in sheltered Stromness. Were we laughing at one of Spray’s stories while they were freezing to death?
He felt sick.
Something rattled, the echo reverberating through the nave. When he looked up he saw Salt standing stock still behind a pillar he’d backed up to.
“I- I think I’ve found one more,” Salt said, eyes wide.
“Several,” came Harvest’s detached voice a moment later from behind the wooden installation. “Looks like someone put them here. Has to have been years ago though.”
They were standing in a tomb.
When he turned to face the others, he saw his own feelings mirrored on their faces. Brenda still sat off to one side, a fetlock pressed to her muzzle. He didn’t trust his voice and just flicked his head toward the main entrance. They shouldn’t have intruded here in the first place. Shouldn’t have disturbed the peace.
While his companions filled the building with what now sounded like a cacophony of hoofsteps, he went over to Brenda. She still seemed to be looking at nothing when he reached her and with great care put a wing across her back. “Let’s leave them in peace,” he murmured.
She just nodded in response, but at least she got to her hooves and followed him.
They walked down the aisle under the indifferent eyes of all the Old Folk depicted on the windows. The figures made his skin crawl as they cast a rainbow of light on the dusty floor before him. He tried very hard not to look over his shoulder.
The soft wind in his mane and the sun on his back had never felt so good. After regaining his composure he declared in a tired voice, “We’re done here. Let’s head home.” The thankful nods and quiet nickers of the others were all the confirmation he needed and he fell into a trot. A mute Brenda stayed close to his side as they headed northwest on the most direct route out of the ruins.
When the open fields came into view he switched to a canter, the others pulling closer together and following his example as one. He needed air. He needed to get away. He needed to run. They all seemed to share his feelings as they fanned out into a wide V-formation the moment he broke into a gallop.
Earth and grass flew up behind them as they streaked across the meadows, leaving Kirkwall further and further behind.
You’re forsaking them.
It was true. Going by what he now knew to be the truth, more would arrive. He hoped they’d have more luck, like the smoky yellow mare at his side. Scarred little Brenda.
They’ll die like the others. She almost did.
Yes, he was running away. They’d need a permanent presence in the old city to make a difference. They’d have to keep up patrols and also drive back the roaming packs.
We are too few!
As one, they jumped over a ditch and raced towards their little town by the bay. To the north, the sea glittered in the afternoon sun. To the south, the land stretched out toward Burray and South Ronaldsay, the southern islands hidden by a soft haze.
You could change that.
Chieftain.
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Daaaawww!
Uh oh.
Now I'm gonna have to look up where Freya was in the story.
This was awesome.
I reread some of the early chapters recently, and its rather dramatic how much your writing has improved since then.
Well, well, well, here it comes. Poor Dawn thought that managing a small bickering herd was hard? Let's see how he can manage a shadow of a real challenge.
I wonder how every horse on the island managed to miss so many returnees who seem to have been living out there for months, if not years. It's not that big of an island, after all, and while Scapa's herd is stationary, the others seem to roam a lot.
Great chapter. A lot of answers that are more like more questons.
And I like when it's that way.
7764413
Yes, Dawn slept really well the following night.
For the number of returnees, I think I might already be stretching it towards a fairly high return rate. Orkney has a total population of about 22000, of which Stromness has 2200 and Kirkwall 9000. The third largest 'town' is on South Ronaldsay; St Margarets's Hope with 550 residents. Yep, there's a town there as well.
The rest are spread out over the mainland (+Burray and South Ronaldsay) and the twelve other larger islands. Kirkwall is your best bet and has (confirmed) about ten returnees over 120 years, which brings the total to twelve. Might be a few more, but not that many, and St Magnus really would be your best bet for shelter. And since everyone stayed clear of Kirkwall for one reason or the other and not everyone returned in summer, avoided the dogs, or would be brave enough to strike out into the complete unknown on their own... my thoughts on it.
And I intend to keep it that way as long as possible.
7763595 I know, right? Some of the credit goes to my editors though, they really help. I ought to rewrite the earlier chapters. I still like the prologue the way it is though.
And thank you!
7763359
I love those two... guess it shows.
Back in the mists of time she had a little screen time.
7764499
They would benefit from that, but I hesitate to encourage it, as rewriting chapters before the story is finished tends to be a huge mistake. It makes writers lose momentum, and eventually, interest. Many a fine fic has died because its author started a rewrite halfway through.
7765158 You're absolutely right, I've seen that effect a few times as well. Currently I do look at them every now and then, mainly when I've hit an obstacle with the current chapter (and they're, well... really not very good). My plan is to try and do some serious revising when the story is maybe a chapter or two from being done. Basically when the finish line is in sight - I'd just like to have it done before I slap that 'complete' tag on it. Because I'm certain I won't be revising anything after that point.
Zippers. Another one of humans underrated inventions. You can do so much with zippers. And I really have no clue how they are made... they are way more complicated than they look. Anyone who's tried to fix a broken, flawed or damaged one knows that fact. Amusing note: Dawn wants, and Brenda lets him, into her tight leather pants.
You know, the emotions here are heavy. Two people in two different emotional turmoils, neither able to fully understand what the other is experiencing, yet able to emphasize still, surrounding by others who can only watch in helpless confusion. It's heavy. Dawn finding out that not only is he the only one to take after his father of all the children, but he's the only one to have bred true to the Old Folk blood. Moor must be giddy realizing he's related to them. Or rather, be emotionally and intellectually stimulated with the revelation of a much closer tie to the Old Folk than he previously could have theorized.
On two side notes, Dawn sorta is a young chieftain from a folktale. This could be a disney movie XD With two Princesses. Brenda and Buidhe
. Second side note, Brenda might cause a few ponyisms with her fumbling with the word usage 
Yet another sidenote. Don't tell Solstice about riding. He already has such ideas about scaffolding.
Also... Starlight shine down on us all! Freya might be Dawn's relative... She matches the description of the one that Scapa met.
I'm kinda hoping hoofcare is an intimate thing :P I still ship BrenDawn.
Ah, so a few other Old Folk did return to the forbidden lands. If only Scapa had not cast them aside and had his herd trample the packs he may have found hope... Brenda did leave quite the impression on the pack through. Considering how she trounced them...
Huh... going into the cathedral must be like... those video games were you explore some ancient elven or precursor temple. Now I kinda want to read that. A post event society uncovering an old cathedral and in awe and wonder... But damn... The heaviness is back. How many were lost because Scapa made the call (admittedly rightfully so...) that he couldn't hold the city? *sighs heavily*
7765350
I made the assumption that Scapa was kinda clinging to that in an attempt to preserve a little bit of normalcy and humanity. When Moorland came along, it was a given he'd preserve it.
I admit that's one of the things I might not have given enough thought to.
That was on of the things I was really looking forward to write, I admit.
That sure wasn't pretty, yes.
You know, finding not one but two long, analytical comments first thing in the morning really makes up for that. :)
7765357
Hah! I knew you'd be the one to pick up on that.
And you're right - they're actually amazing. Just like matches.
Moorland: I'm really emotionally and intellectually stimulated with the revelation of a much closer tie to the Old Folk than I could have previously theorized.
Buidhe: What?
Solstice: He's excited about hands.
That... is actually a really good idea.
She does, doesn't she? :) She's not Dawn's grandmother though - it took twenty years or so before Scapa was mentally pony enough to even consider taking a horse mate. Also, he was a colt when she found him.
Judging by Brenda's reaction, it is. It's rather close contact when you're a human, for a pony it means full body contact, almost everywhere. It also requires complete trust, especially from the one who relinquishes control. I'm sure Springtide had one of her signature smirks on her muzzle. Since it's been the first time it ever has happened in that way, it doesn't have a special status yet. It might acquire one though. *jots down another idea*
There are several 'if only' around, it's true.
My better half said that the first thing that came to mind was the 'The sanctity of this place has been fouled' quote from Diablo 1. I had to admit the soundtrack wouldn't have been totally out of place.
Really like that optimistic ending after all the depressing scenes they saw in Kirkwall. It might be a while before there's anyone else to rescue, but it sounds like the next person might have better luck.
For the long-term plans, I wonder if painting lots of signs around the city directing returnees to Stromness or to relatively safe places in Kirkwall that they could check on would be easier to manage than patrols?
7766901
A single century wouldn't give huge language drift even in normal circumstances. Also, everypony learned the language from Scapa or ponies who learned from him. Language drift would have to be extraordinarily slow when Scapa was acting as an anchor to the past. Any books they had were also ones written before the Event, acting as further anchors.
7767061 Let's hope the optimism is warranted then.
The thing with the signs is a good idea, but it might not be enough - especially when someone returns in winter. A combination with a small permanent presence might be better, so that anyone who finds a sign can get to safety fairly quickly.
Scapa as anchor to the original form of his language just gave me an idea...
7764494
Did he manage to fall asleep? The kid is stronger than he looks.
7767061
While it would most certainly be easier, it won't solve the problem of the returnees often being eaten before they get to learn how to walk.
Also, nervous people don't read.
Their best bet in that situation would be to settle the town, and I can see that at least Dawn is at least thinking about that idea (see "why the hell we are not living here???" part).