The Search in Winsome Falls

by Comma Typer

Night in Winsome Falls

It was a quiet night.

Moonlight played upon the leaves of the trees, showering down on to the grass in transient, flowing motions—never still, never static. As in other forests like it, the hoot of the owls and the chirp of the grasshoppers filled the air as the fragrant scent of fresh grass and nearby mountains. Over here or over there, a rustle of leaves or a trembling of bushes—a rabbit or a beaver scouting for food or for wood, respectively.

The dirt path had never moved from its fixed place in the forest, cutting through and winding around the same trees that it had from its conception. The wear and the tear that it had borne was evident by the firm ridges that constant wagon travel would have made—the pressure of the wheels, the weight of the cargo, both of which from times past either long or days ago.

Out of the forest, into the clearing—a great expanse of wonder, of beauty alluring. Though at day, its splendor in the rushing waterfalls, the running rivers, the lush greenery, the overwhelming mountains, the size of it all, the rainbow falls—though at day, these conquered an average pony's imagination under the calming, warm sunlight—at night, Winsome Falls took on a subdued elegance, not prizing itself in the bombastic barrage of natural features seen clearly under the sun but in the quiet of just being present, of just being there.

The waterfalls, pouring into more behaved lakes and ponds, still rushed and still spewed out water with strength. However, the moonlight it reflected made them like glittering treasures—its white foams like diamonds and precious stones floating above the water, to disappear in mere moments.

The rivers, with their crisp and fresh water, sounded its soft stream, its pouring of water under the same moonlight being given the same liquid diamonds the waterfalls had, only here they lasted longer, flowing—in a second, gone; in another, here again, farther down the creek.

The greenery—the trees, the grass, and the other plants inhabiting the place—bended and swayed under the gentle and cold night breeze. The leaves rustled here as in the forest before, its flowers and its fruit rustling, too, but never threatening to fall, to detach.

The mountains, having never moved anywhere during the day, were in no hurry to move anywhere during the night either. Their sheer immensity—such height they had—gave the flat ground below a faint shadow, though not preventing the moon from casting at least some of its light on to it.

The size of Winsome Falls would give a pony free reign over much territory, over much space. Here was a good place to set up camp—prop up some tents, build a fire, make some fresh marshmallows. There would still be more than enough land to trot upon—perhaps to chase each other around or to play a game of hide-and-seek. Here was a good place to show a group of ponies—any group of ponies, whether a class of foals eager to learn or a crowd of tourists keen to take pictures of all the scenery around them—a beautiful sight. With lots of ground to walk on, there was lots of ground to talk on, to watch on, to relax on. Here was a good place to have a party—with so much room to, well, party in with all the usual decorations of balloons, streamers, confetti, music, food, drinks. There would be no lack of spots to stage a party from a casual get-together to a full-blown blow-out.

But, Winsome Falls was also a place for the pony to visit only to be there. There was no need to go camping nor was there a need to have a field trip nor was there a need to bring along many friends to party. Being there was good enough for what was there—they were excellent enough.

To all of these, however, Watts Onion paid no attention.

His hoofsteps stomped the ground, trodding it down with haggard force as his gallop slowed to a walk. His eyes were looking here and there, constantly shifting from one thing to the next. He opened his mouth, he clenched his jaw, he growled and groaned through his gritted teeth.

"Where?!"

And nothing said a word back to him.

Looking here, seeing this, then turning around—almost dizzied, sturggling to stay on his four hooves.

Tumbled down.

Flat on his face.

"Ugh..."

Eyes unsteady—closed.

Rubbed his eyes.

Opened them.

In the distance, a figure in front of a tree.

Wearing a hat.

"You!"

Pointed a hoof.

The figure stopped.

Up on his four hooves, Onion ran to him, horn glowing.

No words—fast hoofsteps, only focused on the figure.

Punched down.

And he fell.

---

Slowly opened his eyes again.

"Ugh..not again..."

Saw the vast waterfall with all its flowing water cascading down to the lake with its lily pads.

"Wha...what?"

"Here," the figure said, giving him a pie—sweet-smelling, still fresh. "You've taken a bad blow. You were so exhausted and I thought that you only attacked me because your mind was unclear. I hope this removes any misunderstanding."

The figure was an Earth pony stallion. His coat was blue and his hair was red.

"If you're wondering, you're resting on a tree," he said to Onion. "Maybe that will help you re-orient yourself."

He was holding a fedora.

"I—" Onion gasped "—need to—I need to...take you."

"Take me where?" the figure asked, lowering his voice to a whisper. "Do you have something to show me?"

"Custody," Onion whispered back.

"Custody?" the figure repeated, moving his head back. "I've done you no wrong, stranger. I could've injured you worse, I could've imprisoned you, I could've stolen all of your food." He placed a hoof on his chest. "I even helped you recover. This is the first time you've seen me and—"

"You must go to jail, sir!" Onion shouted right in front of his face.

The figure was silent for a while, stepping back as the features on his face dampened. "Do I...know you?"

"You should!" Onion yelled, pointing a hoof at him again. "I'm Watts Onion! I'm the pony who brought down the most notorious criminals in all of Equestria! You've heard of Flim and Flam—their time is over! I should've been respected, we should've been lauded with all kinds of rewards and awards and accolades and medals for our efforts! No!"

Struggled to stand—stayed down, stayed near the tree.

"They don't understand how evil they were!" Onion went on in his tirade, his eyes narrowing. "They should've kept them down for all their lives—never ever to see a beautiful day in Equestria without being behind bars! Never! I've been fooled! What is peace if they'll be out in a short time, sir?!"

A pause.

"You go with me! Or else!"

And he pulled out his medal—his royal medal of identification.

"I'll make you go with me!"

Hard, loud breathing through his gritted teeth.

The figure put on his hat.

"I'm sure they'll learn some lessons," the figure said. "It's sad they had to be punished so severely. However, if that's what it takes to tell them that friendship is good, then so be it."

And Onion lunged at him.

The figure stopped him with a hoof and let him drop.

He steppd forward, now only inches in front of the flat Onion.

"You're selfish," the figure said.

"You're suspicious!" Onion shouted. "Why are you here? What's your name, huh?!"

The figure sighed. "Promise that you won't try to hurt me again. Then, I shall tell you as much as I want to."

Onion growled again.

"Or, I can take you to custody for harming an innocent pony with no reason."

One more growl.

Onion retracted his medal.

Loud breathing.

The rush of the waterfall, the flow of the river, the rustling of the leaves under the wind. The night sky was above all of them, the moon shining softly and the stars twinkling in their remote homes.

"I am Ribbon Tail, husband to a lovely Watercourse, and father of two foals. We live in Lead Change, a growing village south of Vanhoover and bordering the Undiscovered West. You don't need to know much about our daily life there—all you need to know is that we had a fun, carefree life there. And we still do.

"As far as I know about myself, I have not committed a single crime. Maybe I did on accident, but never on purpose. You can think that I'm lying because I want to cover myself—that is alright; it is hard to believe a criminal's plea to innocence, but I won't stay long on that.

"What I will stay long on is why I'm here."

He walked to another tree, kicked it, and some pink flowers fell—their petals thin and graceful in their descent.

One caught in his grip.

Showed it to Onion.

"This flower," the figure said, "is not native to this soil. It comes from a far-away location." Raised his head. "Tell me, Onion. Have you heard of the legend of the Pony of Beauty?"

Silence—knitted brows on Onion.

"Not as well-versed as I thought. I shall tell you, anyhow: an ancestor of mine, rumored to be from a pony-settled area far beyond the Undiscovered West. Many successes and accomplishments are attributed to her, from the saving of her hometown from an evil tyrant to the building of a royal castle that the Princesses themselves used to inhabit. A great lot of ponies claim to be her descendant, to cash in on whatever advantage they could obtain—as is the case for so many other ponies shrouded in mystery and ambiguity.

"But, if there is anything consistent about what they pass down from generation to generation, it is that, although she was not 'beautiful' in the traditional sense, she sought to beautify any and everything that she encountered. She became a wanderer throughout Equestria—how, then, would she appear, only slightly altered, in various stories all the way from our humble hometown to even the sophisticated metropolis of Fillydelphia or Manehattan?

"You know of bedtime stories—so do I. A tale that began with my great-great-great-grandfather came to me and it went like this:

"The Pony of Beauty once travelled to this very place, these Winsome Falls. She found it pretty much the same way you and I found it—beautiful. To the average pony, there was no need for adjustments or changes; this place was beautiful as is.

"For the Pony of Beauty, however, she immediately went about the business of planting flowers, bushes, trees, and other shrubbery. Not content with only adding plants, she decorated the trees with her city's native magical lanterns which ensured any pony passing by a safe passage through Winsome Falls at night.

"While she was working there, some other travelers arrived. Knowing who she was, they bowed down to her—to her reluctance, but she allowed it. Then, one of the ponies posed a question."

Silence.

"'Pony of Beauty, is there such a quality as excess?"

"'Of course, there is,' she said."

"'Is there such a quality as lack?'"

"Of course, there is,' she said again."

"'So, with these two, a perfection is to be achieved, correct? Neither excess nor quality but perfection, is it not?'"

"'Yes, that is, so,' she said."

"'What, then, would be the fruit of your strange efforts, Pony of Beauty?' they then asked. 'For we've set hoof here innumerous times, and its own beauty has sufficed for the enjoyment of all who have laid their eyes on nature arranged in this splendor.'"

Silence—Onion looking on, eyes still narrowed, half-closed; strained cheeks, downward mouth.

"You don't want to leave the story in a cliffhanger, do you?"

No response—no word, no head movement, not even a rolling of eyes.

"Her reply? 'It is only simple—it lacked, and I sought to fill it to perfection. It is easy to mistake need for fullness when fullness itself has not been told or thought of.'

"And, it ended there—that's how the story went and that was fine for me." Then, a raised eyebrow—an ambitious smile across his face. "But, rummaging through the history books in search of this pony's identity has given me another dimension to the tale."

Silence once more as he locked eye contact with Onion.

No response from him.

"There is no definite end for the Pony of Beauty herself," he said. "It is said, in the legends of her, that, after her mysterious disappearance, some travelled to the places where she herself beautified—in the hopes that, someday, when all Equestria faced a decline of what it stood for—what it meant—then she would arrive once more to tell all what must be done."

Silence as the two looked under the night—the moon slowly descending behind the mountains.

"That's why I'm here," Ribbon Tail told. "Nothing more, nothing less. I am here to honor that tradition, and—believe it or not—I have a teeny-tiny bit of hope myself that maybe she's real—not just as my ancestor but as the Pony of Beauty herself. There is nothing hidden about this—I've revealed to you a matter that only my closest of friends, including my wife, knows. And why? To tell you, Watts Onion—" leaning closer to him, letting go of his hat "—that I am an innocent stallion. Ask my wife when she's away from the kids. She will confirm what I said."

With that, he picked up his hat.

Silence.

It was a quiet night.

He hoofed Onion his bags.

"I'll give you a headstart," he said. "You see—" He wore his hat, covering his eyes in shadow "—I'm a good pony, but that doesn't mean I'm always nice. You just attacked me with no good reason. That doesn't sound heroic, does it?"

Onion slowly stood up—groaning, struggling to get up.

"I want you to get out of here as fast as you can," he said. "Because, in a few minutes, I'll be going, too. I'll then fulfill my role as an obedient citizen of Equestria by not being silent about the crime you've committed—yes, Watts Onion, I'll report you to the proper authorities."

With one final growl—a snarl, almost spitting at him—Onion dashed off.

Hoofsteps fading.

The sky surely turning bright.

Ribbon Tail turned his hat up a little.

Onion was out of view.

The figure sighed.

Then, he walked the other way, leaving Winsome Falls with a sober gait.

The moon disappeared, the morning arrived, and the sun was triumphant in its return, giving off its warm sunlight to all under the sky, raising Winsome Falls to its greater beauty.