The Anthropologist

by Weavers of Dreams

-92- Is the World Made of Snails? (Rewritten)

If anyone bothered to ask, he would probably say that it felt like he was sitting on Santa's lap, not that he knew what that was like. But, Henry enjoyed his perch upon the fat man's knee all the same as he ate fish and chips while the man told his stories. It was getting well on into the evening, so Mr. Smith had suggested they take a table at a griffon restaurant that had been established not to long ago, according to him.

It was a simple menu, offering salads, sandwiches as well as choice cuts and seafood. Though, one would have to admit, a little salty. The salt was good though, had a unique flavor, and a very bluish tint to it. Supposedly it was harvested from the tides pools on the island, amongst other things set upon the tables.

Mark seemed very entertained by the colt, and when he heard the little fellow request fish and chips, he made it an extra large batch so that they could share. With tartar sauce and malt vinegar, of course, they were civilized after all. Lyra had chosen a plate of octopus and Daring opted for a couple salad sandwiches, the latter also opting to sit a safe distance away. After all, most mares don't like fish, Lyra being an exception, even though she wasn't the one eating fish at the moment.

"So, mere hours after pulling out of that dreadful storm, we finally arrived upon these islands," Mr. Smith continued before taking a long gulp from his stein.

"The Western Isles?" Henry beamed, his cheeks covered with crumbs and salt. A napkin wreathed in a golden aura hovered over to wipe his face, much to his dismay. "Awe, mom."

"Well, you shouldn't be so messy," she teased with a smile. "Plus, I needed an excuse to see if my magic was getting any stringer. Good news, not as painful as it has been."

Henry took a spitefully messy bite from his fish in response, making his mother giggle and narrow her eyes warningly. He took careful small bites afterwards so as to wade too deep in the hot water. She seemed to accept this nonverbal apology with a small, almost indecipherable nod.

The fat man laughed aloud at the display. "Oh-ho, no. That storm blew us miles off course. They were different islands, a pirate hideout in fact.”

That made the colt’s ears perk up and his eyes widen. “Pirates? Did you fight them?”

“Nah,” Mark shook his head dismissively. “They were the saddest group of pirates we’d ever met. Their ship was little more than a bunch of barrels and driftwood held together with spit and spackle, and they only had one rifle between the five of them. The last three shots of which they used to call for help by firing into the air.”

Henry seemed torn between expressing disappointment and laughing. “So? What did you do?”

“Gave them the first hot meal they’d had in months, and paid a passing tribe of seaponies to take them back to the college campus they ran away from,” Daring piped up grouchily. She was not enjoying the smell of seafood, but was too polite to say anything.

“College campus?” Lyra inquired, tilting her head to the side curiously.

“That’s right,” the man nodded with a humorous sigh. “A bunch of self-entitled brats, that's what they were. At least, when they first set out. When we found them, they had done an incredible amount of growing up. A month trapped on a deserted island will do that to you.”

Lyra cringed a bit. “Lord of the Flies?”

“Thankfully not as... that,” Mark replied, making a face. The mare relaxed a bit. “Poor fools couldn’t even make a proper shelter from the weather, thanks to their ‘ingenious’ idea of stuffing their ‘raft’ into the only cave on the island to keep it from getting waterlogged.”

“This is starting to sound like a satire,” Lyra mused around a mouthful of octopus. It was rather buttery.

“There are dumber things that happen,” Mr. Smith shrugged. “But, that’s not important. Other than that and the storm, there wasn’t really much else that happened until we reached the Western Isles, where we are now.”

“Then stuff really started getting interesting,” the Archaeologist spoke up.

"You know, you don't have to sit all the way over there," Mark called out to her. "You would think, as an adventurer, you wouldn't be so disgusted by fish."

"The taste is fine," the pegasus muttered as she rolled her eyes, "I got used to that a long time ago. It's just the smell that kills me." She noticed the smirk on Lyra's face. "And, unlike like present company, I'm the only one who was born and raised a pony."

"Ah, so I'm less of a pony then?" Lyra teased, sticking out her tongue.

"Yes," the archaeologist snorted.

"Ouch, I am cut to the quick," Lyra cried dramatically, tossing a hoof to her brow. Then she laughed. "But, in all serious, how did stuff start getting more interesting?"

"Well," Mark Smith began, tussling the colt's mane, much to the little guy's disdain, "to begin with. To send a clear message to the local wildlife, we bombarded the beach with a few howitzers."

"Yipes," the mint mare reeled in surprise. "Just screw subtly, huh?"

"Have you read the book?"

"Noted," she was quick to reply and nod.

"After planting the Equestrian flag we used the airships as a base of operations for the first week," the story went on, "until we could establish a proper fortress on the ground below. As you probably saw, along with the wall and artillery defenses, we took no chances."

Lyra nodded. "And the citizens of the colony are grateful, no doubt."

"Of course," Mark grinned. "But, even then that was no easy task. The beasts of this island were very curious, and it didn't take long for them to get over the shock of the beach exploding and venture out to check on us. You probably remember that drawing of what Darkest Darkness called an oogoo, right?"

Where Darkest Darkness came up with these names was anybody's guess. But the oogoo, was amongst the more prominent beasts in his unfinished field guide.

Lyra nodded. "Yep. How did you deal with them?"

"Snipers," Mark stated simply. "Pick off a few of them, hang up their corpses along the edge of the fores, and the rest tend to get the idea that their not welcome."

"Like the apples do with farm vermin," Lyra mused thoughtfully. "That's pretty smart."

"Well it took quite a few bodies," Daring piped up. "For a while the other oogoos were just coming out of the woods to eat their own dead. But, they eventually got the idea."

"And, a few expeditions into the wilderness with some flamethrowers and high-powered rifles put the fear of man into them," the fat man added. "Now they go out of their way to avoid us."

"And the rest follow?" asked the mint mare with a little smile.

"Once they learn that you're the apex predator, they tend to wise up," the archaeologist chuckled. "Nothing bothers us anymore." Then she looked to be in thought. "Well... except the islands themselves."

"What?" Henry asked, licking the crumbs off his lips before his mom could use the napkin again.

Daring leaned forward against the table and placed her front hooves together. "Did you see them from the airship?"

The colt nodded. "Yes."

"Did you see how they all appeared to one side?" she asked him, smiling.

"Yes."

"What if I told you that the reason for this is because they're snails?"

"The colt's jaw dropped. "What? Really? Are we on a snail?"

"A dead one, all that's really left is the shell," the pegasus explained, grinning at his amazement. "Over time, the tides carried sand and dirt, plants and abominations to the corpse. Eventually resulting in this nightmarish ecosystem."

"That's incredible," Lyra said, eyes almost as wide as her son's. "How could snails get this big?"

"Well, the real question you should be asking is," began Mark, "are these the only three?"

"Are they?"

"We've managed to convince a few seaponies to aid in our expedition," Daring mentioned. "We paid them to dive around the islands in search of oddities. What they found was at least twelve more giant shells stretching out across the ocean floor."

"This is actually rather disturbing and disgusting," Lyra said with a shudder.

"What's more disturbing is that all the shells are pointed west, meaning that they were heading east for some reason." The archaeologist sighed and shook her head. "So, it can be concluded that these aren't some flukes of nature. But, an actual species of island sized snails."

Lyra sighed. "Let me guess... you decided to call them island snails, didn't you?"

Both the archaeologist and the fat man looked away, almost ashamed. Lyra sighed again, while Henry laughed.

"No originality," the anthropologist muttered. She cleared her throat. "So, any idea where they were headed?"

Daring shook her head. "There are places some seapony tribes talk about. Places where the giants of the deep congregate to avoid the sun."

Lyra mulled over this a moment. "Are you saying these snails died of heat stroke?"

Daring's eyes widened. "Er, no... but, that... that's actually a plausible theory." She grabbed a napkin and began writing on it with a pen she had pulled from her hat. "Perhaps the weaker ones were unable to complete the migration because they baked inside their own shells."

"So these were the smaller one?" Henry asked, putting a hoof to his chin as he considered what the adults were saying.

"And there's my nightmare for this week," the pegasus groaned, the reality of what the foal had just said crossing her wires. "Lyra, you're colt is too smart for his own good."

Lyra wasn't fairing too much better. "These are the babies? Are the adults the size of continents?"

"No. It couldn't be." Daring's eye's widened as she contemplated this revelation. "No. No-no-no. The world is not made of giant snails."

"World snails?" Henry asked aloud to no one in particular. He just wanted to test out a different name.

Both mares pushed away the remainder of their dinner, suddenly not hungry anymore.

That is. Until they saw the dessert menu.

Comments

[pahnazd]

Heh, indeed, some stories are just so stupid that others will hardly believe you even if they really happened

So, another story about how the current colony came to be. Hoo booy, this is gonna be fun!

[Dan]

Better to be Noblemen who have gone wrong than, say, the crew of the Somers.