A Collection of Tall Tales

by SirReal

The Olive Tree

There once was a mare of beauty unparalleled, belike the greatest beauty known to ponykind. Far and wide, she searched for her love; however, her otherworldly allure inspired in the hearts of stallions and mares alike deep shame in their own appearance, and they would not so much as speak or glance at her, unworthy of her attention as they felt.

It wasn’t long until the beautiful mare grew confused, and her confusion gave way to immeasurable loathing. Loathing for her perceived repulsiveness. And so the mare searched the corners of the Earth, yet what she had in mind was not a soul-mate, but a manner in which to grant herself glamour that would woo any and everyone.

On high in the treacherous mountains of the secluded Helenor Isles, the beautiful mare traversed the long, winding paths and narrowly avoided falling to her doom. At the peak, it was said, rested an olive tree that granted perfection to whomever carried with them one of its ethereal branches.

Salt flew on the wind from the seas, burning her eyes and drying her tongue, yet onward she traipsed. Her muscles ached and spasmed, weary from days without rest, yet onward she traipsed. A rumbling came from her knotted, empty stomach, yet onward she traipsed. Arachnids the size of Timberwolves hissed, insatiable wyrms and wyverns burrowed into the bedrock, trolls and fays and even a flittering moth stood betwixt her and her prize, yet onward she traipsed…

Her travels finally came to an end when she surmounted the inscrutable mountains, and, Glory be! there sat her prize! At the rocky, withered peak sat the lonely olive tree. Only, it had no branches. An oppressive, reverberating rumble resonated rather roughly through the beautiful mare, causing her teeth to chatter uncontrollably.

There! Under the dying tree sits the source of the noise. Can’t you see it? The figure, though diminutive, clad in long, flowing robes, now tattered from what may be years of travel and strife. Yes, him!

“You there,” the beautiful mare called as she approached. “Is this not the olive tree rumored to grant beauty unbound?”

The musician stopped his cacophony. He answered with a shrug, telling the beautiful mare the tree was once a friend, and that he would speak with it at length about wood carvings and kingdoms and myriad other topics when it was more lively. Now, he said, it is dead. And for that he grieved.

“Is there not a method by which the olive tree may be restored to life?” asked the beautiful mare.

The musician answered with a shrug. Perhaps. He stood, blowing the bizarre instrument for three seconds before stopping. When the beautiful mare tried to ask what he had done, he answered with a shrug. Wait. And so she waited. She waited an hour, then a day, then a week, then a fortnight. Finally, there came a thunderous crack, and the sky split in twain. Descending from the heavens, a drake flapped its golden wings, its smooth bill reflecting the sun through the gray, parted clouds.

The musician was scooped up in the maw of the golden drake, and carried off into the distance, leaving the beautiful mare alone with but a single feather as company along with the lonely, dead tree. Lifting the feather, the mare found that it, too, reflected the light of the sun, much like the drake. The light guided her to the peak’s edge, down into the raging seas below, and without thought the mare leapt.

The salt in the air stung her eyes and dried her tongue; her muscles ached; her stomach knotted; arachnids, wyrms, wyverns, trolls, fays, and even a flittering moth watched as the gusts sang and the light, soft and motherly, caressed the beautiful mare, granting her the golden wings of a drake. So she descended, a glimmering beacon of determination, before being swallowed whole by the cold, raging seas.

...

Steadily downward she sank, till all sight was smothered by the abyssal depths. Try as she might, the beautiful mare had lost touch with all of her senses. She wasn’t even sure she was in the physical plane any longer. For the first time since the birth of the world, a mortal experienced oblivion.

Down here all was darkness.

Down here all was silence.

Down here all was alien.

Up became down; left became right. In this weightless, directionless dimension the only constant was that growing feeling of dread from the wrongness of it all that twisted and churned, gnawing and clawing its way up from the pit of the stomach and writhing from within the skull. Nothing of this world was ever meant to plunge into this void, this forgotten, forbidden gash left behind by enigmatic, primordial progenitors.

Something stirred.

Something watched.

He simply watched.

Panic. If the beautiful mare knew nonexistence, by some incomprehensible means she yet knew panic. She had to get out, out, out! She would scream if she had a mouth. Terror washed over her as steadily as the currents, but was replaced with curiosity as a soft glow, nearly suffocated by the darkness, brought her shattered psyche back to the waking world. She drifted, pulled by an unknown, but comforting, force toward her salvation.

If the beautiful mare knew nonexistence, by some incomprehensible means she yet knew rapture. Upon reaching her beacon of hope, an olive branch, everything warped around her, stretching and compressing, spinning round and round. Up became up; left became left; weightlessness gave way to gravity; dread melted to delight; and above all, darkness was burned away by light.

She was alive!

The beautiful mare awoke to find herself at the peak of the mountain, under a blooming olive tree. A branch lay before her, and she excitedly grabbed it. She hopped up and down, tears streaming from her eyes as she hugged the lively olive tree. When her passion subsided, exhaustion stole her strength away, and she slept there for yet another fortnight.

Much had changed, she noted, as she continued her travels. Many kingdoms had risen and fallen during her journey to find the olive tree. And, with her charm in hoof, the beautiful mare had every intention of ruling a nation of her own.

Comments

[Kodiologist]

This started out interesting, and I appreciate the gaudy writing style, but I feel like I missed the point.

[SirReal]

8264670
This will be nonsensical, so oftentimes there won't be a point to get. It's less bothersome if you take every word at face value.

[Kodiologist]

8264700
Oh, okay. I like to write somewhat experimental stories, but I guess this one's a little too far out for me! :)

[Assy Assman]

I loved it.