The Parable of the Toymaker

by Jarvy Jared

Chapter One

All the new thinking is about loss.

In this way it resembles all the old thinking.

“Meditation at Lagunitas,” Robert Hass

***

Argyle came to us by sea, which, I suppose, was part of why he meant so much. Most ponies, especially the earth ponies who lived in Maretime Bay, preferred the safety of the train over any other form of transportation, especially when they wanted to travel to our humble shop, which presided over the edge of a cape that observed the great ocean to our west. According to my father, a stallion famous for the fact that all of his hair turned white before the expected age, that cape had once been part of a mighty coastal trading post that had sunk into the sea many moons ago, and that was why we had that isthmus facing the larger landmass of Equestria in perpetual longing.

I was a young mare, then. Only a few years prior, I’d earned my Cutie Mark: a wooden horse figurine accompanied by several brushes. At first glance you would have thought it was the exact same one as my father’s, for his also was of a wooden figurine, but it represented his talent for molding wood into form, of taking the mental picture of a model and fashioning it into reality. He had been doing this long before I had come around, and so I had always known him for the constant look of concentration he bore whenever he was examining new material. It was like a valley of impossible depth inhabited the space between his brows. When he worked, he insisted on no interruptions. The door to his workshop was closed. It would stay that way whenever he was designing a new set, meaning that the little shop would have to be tended to by another worker, one of the many who cycled through the door, brought in by the enticing prospect of studying under a master, then forced out, either in anger or in shame, by the master’s intense scrutiny and disappointment with their skills.

But my father treated me differently. I suppose that was because I was all he had left of his wife, a mare whom I never knew because she had died shortly after I was born. My father often told me how much I reminded him of her, though he seldom could explicate exactly why. We had no pictures of her in either the shop or the above loft where our bedrooms resided. And my father, though an excellent toymaker, was not prone to talking about her. It was as though she either escaped living description on account of being dead, or that he lacked the words, or the ability to find the words, best suited for describing her. As a result, when he spoke of my mother and compared me to her, in my mind I imagined only myself in her place. Though her voice and her figure shifted and ebbed like a creature able to transform into anything else at will, her face was like mine. A few workers, before they were inevitably fired, expressed concern when they overheard those somewhat frequent instances where my father would make such a comparison. “Isn’t that a lot to put on a kid?” they would say, worried that he was unintentionally ruining my conception of her. My father would bristle, and half the time threaten to fire them on the spot, for intruding upon the sanctity of his family was akin to destroying one of the models in which he took great pride.

Yet I understood he never meant harm. It was his way of attempting to bridge the gulf of memory that stretched between us. I could understand him and what he felt, even when, as often was the case, words failed him. As such, I never felt he was attempting to replace my mother with me—instead, I understood that he was working the impossible problem of making space for both the dead and the living. In the same way that he could look at a block of wood and see what it was meant to be, I could listen to his half-meanings and divine his true intentions.

That was why when, on a hot summer day, he raised his eyes from the register and said solemnly, “The day darkens yet,” I knew he meant that somepony truly notable had arrived.

The worker, a stallion only a year older than me named Easel Chisel, frowned at my father. “But it’s still morning.”

“He means we have a customer coming,” I said helpfully.

“Sure he does.” Easel Chisel rolled his eyes and turned away. He had been in my father's employment the longest out of all of the apprentices, but had failed to grasp my ability to understand my father and his feelings, attributing my interpretations to blind luck. I stuck my tongue out at him.

My father walked around the counter, peering out the door. He wore that same look of concentration, but something, I sensed, was different. Concern and intrigue came out of him like a slow crawl of blood. The door to the shop was partially open, to let in the cool ocean breeze. My father stood still as it washed over him, bringing with it a smell of salt and brine. I watched him, curious.

“Sails,” he said. “But black or white?”

He trotted out of the shop. I didn’t have to think twice. Against Easel’s protests, I followed readily after him.

He did not take the usual path that led to the gentle curve of cliffs which connected our shop to the rest of the world. Instead, he briskly took the other, which led him to the north-eastern side. As I followed him, I caught sight of what he had spoken: a plumage of cloud-white sails, that sat with quiet dignity along the back of a humble boat. It was moored to a rickety wooden post that supported the old jetty, about which my father had often expressed a desire to strip for good, dark sea-wood.

On the boat were two earth ponies. One was obviously a sailor, grumpy-faced and scowling. The other was a young stallion, with a light-blue coat and somewhat bohemian mane spilling down the back of his head. He might have been no more than three or four years older than me, but something about him was striking. It might have been his Cutie Mark, which was a yellow shooting star, or the large and thick knapsack he carried on him. Or it might have been the simple fact that he was smiling at us, and both his smile and eyes radiated a warmth and a kindness I had only ever attributed to the sun.

“Hello!” he called up to us. “Is one of you Master Mallet?”

My father harrumphed in satisfaction at the honorific. “Speaking.”

“My name is Argyle, sir. I understand you specialize in wood carvings? I’d like to engage your services!”

“A commission?” My father looked down at the stranger. “Hmm. Very well. Come up to my shop and we’ll talk details.”

Argyle nodded. He came off of the boat, but stumbled a bit on the jetty—evidently he was unused to sea voyages.

My father leaned down to me and said, “Go help him, Maple.” Then he turned and went back the way he came.

I went down the slope and approached Argyle. He was wobbling slightly, attempting to walk. While the sailor watched on, amused, I came up next to him and positioned myself so that he was propped up against me. He was lighter than I expected.

“A-ah!” Argyle struggled to balance himself against me. “Thank you, Miss…”

“Maple,” I answered. “Maple Craft. Give yourself a moment or two. But no longer. Otherwise, you won’t be walking regularly for a bit.”

Argyle chuckled self-consciously. “I guess you figured out I’ve never done this before.”

“Traveling via boat? What made you do that?”

Argyle shrugged. “No particular reason. But it looked like such a nice day over the water, and taking the train for what really is such a short distance felt like a waste.”

I noted that he still felt a bit off-balance, and asked Argyle if he wouldn’t mind if I carried his bag for him. He gave me a grateful nod, then let me slip it over my back. One of the pack’s pockets’ flaps came undone in the process, allowing me the chance to glance at its contents. There seemed to be some kind of journal in there, but I couldn’t tell what it was for.

Argyle told the sailor to wait here for him, and the sailor nodded. He seemed, however, to look pointedly at me, and there was an odd, half-grin across his face—nothing necessarily smug, but close to it. His yellow eyes seemed filled with a youthful energy.

I hadn’t realized I’d been staring until Argyle coughed. “Shall we get going, then, Maple?”

“R-right! Sorry. Let’s.”

The doorbell rang, announcing our return. Easel Chisel looked up and let out a half-strangled gasp. “A customer!” Scrambling around, he put on his best smile. “W-welcome to Mallet’s Wooden Workshop! H-how may I help you?”

“Thank you for offering,” Argyle said. I then thought he was enormously polite, almost naively so. “Actually, ah, I was wondering where Master Mallet went—”

“Over here,” my father said. He’d appeared in the doorway to his workshop. There was a pencil stashed behind his ear, and a flowing, olive-green apron—his favorite—hung over his torso. He waved us over to his counter, and I could see a familiar spark in eye—the spark of a tradespony excited by the prospect of work.

We gathered in front of the counter—all of us, even Easel Chisel. I raised an eyebrow at this, but my father, normally tyrannical when it came to personal space, did not mention it. Rather, he looked directly at Argyle, and said nothing, did nothing.

It was my father’s famed tactic. When one had to stare back at a wintry stallion who could chop logs with naught but a touch of his hoof, one felt little urge to talk shop. It was how, despite the somewhat copious number of belligerent clients, we retained a somewhat healthy business. Most ponies quailed before my father’s intense gaze. This made them state the specifics of their request much quicker, which meant we could get to work on them just as quickly.

But Argyle did not quail. Instead, he leaned forward onto the counter, in a laid-back manner. “What kinds of toys do you make?” he asked.

I waited to see if my father would remain reticent—some ponies had attempted to draw talk out of him in a similar fashion, always to no avail. But to my surprise, he actually responded.

“All sorts,” he grunted. He sounded even a little prideful. “Box sets. Trains. Carriages.”

“Big or small?”

“Big and small.”

“How small?”

“Once I carved a little doll out of a walnut.”

“That’s very small.”

“It is average-sized, I would say.” He guffawed, and Argyle chuckled.

Easel and I glanced at each other. Was my father actually cracking jokes?

“I understand you also make figurines?” Argyle then asked.

“Yes. We get all sorts of requests. Some want their figures small enough to be tucked away into a box. Others have asked for ones that are more life-sized. Those take longer,” he added, “and cost more, of course.”

“Of course. And these… requests. Have they been for pony figurines?”

In answer, my father vanished into the backroom storage and reappeared with a stand of wooden equines. They were of an older set, and I realized with some pride that they were the ones I’d painted—the ones, in fact, that had gotten me my Cutie Mark.

Argyle was gentle in handling them. He barely scuffed a hoof against their bodies—not that they would have broken, but it was still noteworthy how respectfully he treated them. I could see my father’s face shine with quiet approval—I am sure I was the only one who noticed.

“Magnificent,” Argyle said softly. “These are expertly crafted. But I suppose I should expect no less. Who painted them, if I may ask?”

“I did,” I said. I stood up a little taller.

Argyle looked at me. “You did? That’s incredible, Maple! You’ve certainly got quite the talent.”

He said this so earnestly that I felt myself blush and had to look away. “It’s no big deal. This is the work of a filly.”

Easel Chisel chuckled. His laughter dried up after a quick yet piercing glare from my father.

“Hmm.” Argyle looked back over the figures. “They’re earth ponies.”

“Yes,” my father answered. “We get a lot of requests for knights, firefighters, even a sheriff or two.”

Argyle hesitated, and I felt a discordant note in his next sentence. “And… only earth ponies? That’s all you make?”

My father detected what I had. He furrowed his brow and rubbed his chin. “Well… I suppose not. But we’ve always been asked to make earth ponies, for earth ponies.”

“But that doesn’t mean you can only make earth ponies.” Argyle sounded excited now, but also a little desperate. His smile, while still there, had lost some of its zeal, and there was a weariness in his eyes all of a sudden, sprouting from the dark lakes underneath.

“No,” my father said carefully. “I can make anything. Provided I have the numbers.”

Argyle straightened. “I have the numbers, Master Mallet. Believe me, I do.”

My father nodded. “Then let’s see them.”

Argyle turned to me. “Actually, they’re in your bag. If you wouldn’t mind, Maple…”

Carefully, I laid the bag on the table and shifted its contents out. The journal was actually thicker than I’d anticipated. On top was an emblem of a five-pointed star. It didn’t match Argyle’s mark, so I wondered as to its significance. And more importantly, I wondered what was inside.

Argyle seemed to sense my curiosity, for he placed a hoof in front of me, stopping me from reaching out. “Before I open this, I must ask you something first.”

“That being?” my father asked.

Argyle took a deep breath. “What do you know about unicorns and pegasi?”

“Them?!” Easel exclaimed. “You mean besides the obvious?”

Argyle didn’t seem bothered by the outburst. “And what is the obvious?” he asked Easel.

“What, you don’t know?” Easel waved his hooves around in frantic, discombobulated movements. “Unicorns can chew metal and shoot lasers from their eyes! And pegasi will kidnap any pony unlucky enough to be out wandering at night and drink their blood until they’re bone-dry!”

“They’re pegasi, not bats,” I pointed out. Argyle chuckled at this for some reason, which made me feel better about the exasperated look my father gave me.

“Well,” Argyle said, smiling, “thank you for that… I can’t say I’ve heard those exact things before.. But what about you?” he asked my father.

He said nothing at first. He was staring intently at the closed journal as though it was yet another wooden form in need of carving. Then abruptly he looked at me. How intense! Yet also how sad—he was, no doubt, thinking about my mother.

“We are told never to interact with those outside of our tribe,” he began slowly, looking back at Argyle. There was a great degree of restraint in his voice, but to my sensitive bearing I could tell that it was not anger or fear he was hiding, but something else, something more nuanced. It was like a separate note playing against the ritualistic melody of his words. “That others are dangerous, that they could hurt us.”

“Do you believe that?” Argyle asked.

My father shrugged. “I’ve yet to see either a pegasus or unicorn fell a tree or drive an entire cliffside into the ocean—or see either of them in the first place.”

Argyle seemed relieved. Then he looked at me. “And you, Maple? What do you think?”

“W-what? Me?”

“Well, surely a mare such as yourself has some thoughts of her own on the matter. Or have I read that wrong?” He looked at my father who—to my surprise—cracked a small grin.

What could I say? I scrambled for a response. “I… guess I’ve never really thought about it. I mean, yeah, I’m told I shouldn’t try to interact with one of them, but…”

“What if you did, at some point?” he asked.

I frowned, scraping a hoof lightly against the floor. “I… I don’t know. I don’t know if I’d run away, or fight, or…”

“Are you afraid of them?”

“If I’ve never met one? I… I guess not really. Not more than those old stories about monsters being under the bed, I mean.”

“Do you hate them?”

“No,” I answered after a moment. “No, that seems a bit much.”

I looked at him, wondering if he would challenge my restraint. But I detected no judgment in him, shocking me once again. “That’s good to hear,” he said. “Truthfully, I don’t know what I’d do if I ever met a unicorn or a pegasus.”

He looked back at my father. “I’m glad you were able to answer that question, Master Mallet. Most ponies… well, they prefer to say other things.”

“So they do. Now tell me, Argyle.” My father tapped the journal. “Why was knowing what we’d say so important?”

With the precision of a surgeon, Argyle undid the flap keeping the journal closed. The cover was lifted, revealing a first page filled with notes and scribbles. But he didn’t stop long enough for me to clearly see them. Instead, he rapidly flipped through the pages until he got to a certain one.

“Here” he said. I stood on my hind hooves and leaned across the counter to see.

Easel’s harsh gasp alerted me to the contents before I’d seen them. They were a series of black-and-white drawings, consisting of six pony figures with front, back, and side-facing views. But they were not all the same. Two were earth ponies, but two more were pegasi, wings out-spread. One mare was a unicorn, and the final seemed to be both a unicorn and a pegasus, with both wings and a horn.

Yet, unlike the depictions that Easel’s words might have conjured, these figures did not appear all that menacing. They gazed serenely up at us from the page, and their eyes were large and kind.

Along with those drawings were several notes sketched into the margins. They seemed to consist of a series of approximate measurements for wing-size and horn-size, so detailed I would have thought they had been calculated in reference to the real-life thing. There were other notes, too: notes on their ages, Cutie Marks, personality traits, and names. Rainbow Dash. Pinkie Pie. Rarity. Applejack. Fluttershy. Twilight Sparkle. I recognized none of them, and yet something about them all suggested a degree of importance.

“These are…” my father murmured. I looked at him, shocked—did he know these ponies?

Argyle gently pushed the journal into his hooves. He flipped through a few pages, always returning to the one with the drawings. “You’ve toiled a great deal in the field,” my father said.

Argyle understood. “I spent a lot of energy gathering all of this information.” Then he suddenly looked askance, as though remembering something painful, and his voice filled with regret. “It hasn’t been easy, and I can’t help but think I’m missing more than I could ever know.”

“And you want us to craft them,” my father said. “Using what you’ve gathered.”

“If it’s not too much to ask.”

“Of course it’s too much!” Easel shouted. He slammed his hooves on the table, making the journal bounce and nearly toppling the stand with all the figures. “Master Mallet, there’s no way you can consider this commission! It’s out of the question!”

My father looked sharply at him, but this escaped Easel’s notice. He rounded on Argyle, stepping back from the counter and pointing an accusatory hoof at him. “What’s with this drivel anyway, huh? Asking us what we think about unicorns and pegasi and then asking us to build them? I demand that you explain yourself!”

“Easel, hang on,” I tried to say, but stopped short. Something seemed to draw my breath to a close—a tightness, followed by a swelling, like water barely held back. I thought it must have been because of Easel, but no—he was too obvious with his emotions. Next I thought of my father, but, looking at him, he seemed only to regard the situation with a stern coolness.

Was it really Argyle?

“I’m an archaeologist,” he said calmly, without looking at Easel. I heard it in his voice—a tremor of emotion held back by measured politeness. “I explore ancient Equestria’ past. This”—he waved a hoof at the journal—“is one of my findings.” He said this just as measurably calm, but I felt from him a swirl of pride and indignation, as well as unmistakable resolve. It pushed back against Easel’s perplexing hostility.

Easel scoffed. “Ancient Equestria? That’s silly. Why be bothered by the past when we’ve got the present and future to worry about?”

“Sometimes the answers to the questions we have for today and tomorrow can only be found in yesterday.” I got the feeling that Argyle had said that before, had repeated it to himself each day until it was etched into the fiber of his very being.

Easel was about to retort, when my father said, “That’s enough.”

We all looked at him. Easel grinned. “Good! I’m glad you’re not falling for this weirdo’s tricks—”

“Quiet.”

Easel blanched. My father looked coolly at him, and there was a frustrated edge in his voice, the kind that could mean he was about to fire somepony. “Your shift’s over. Go home, Easel. I will see you tomorrow.”

“B-but, Master Mallet, what about—”

“I will deal with it. Go home.”

“But—”

“Now, or otherwise you won’t come in tomorrow.”

Easel looked like he’d been slapped across the face. Slowly, he lowered his head, backed up, and slunk off to retrieve his belongings. When he left, it was with his tail between his legs. I felt a bit sorry for him, but did not feel it too badly, for when he was gone, he took his anger with him.

“I see,” Argyle said. He sounded sad. “I believe I understand your response. Well, then I won’t keep you any longer. Thank you for at least hearing me out.” He bowed, then turned to grab the journal.

“Wait a moment,” my father said. “I don’t recall telling you to go home.”

“Go…” Argyle looked up at my father. “But, what you said, to your acolyte—”

“Was not at all an answer to your request.” He looked down at the journal once more. “Which is, I will say, a most fascinating one. It is not every day somepony comes by the shop and asks for blasphemy.”

“Then… that means…” I said.

“I am interested in this. I am interested in why you want this.” He looked pointedly at Argyle. “But I have a feeling that will reveal itself in due time. That can only happen, I suspect, if I work on this commission, as you have requested.”

Argyle was beside himself with gratitude, but before he could express it, I had to jump in. “Dad,” I said softly, “we can’t be seen making this stuff publicly.”

My father sighed. “I know. We’ll have to keep this one close to our chest. Otherwise…” He looked at the closed door to the shop. The implication was clear.

“I’m sorry,” Argyle offered. “I didn’t mean to cause trouble.”

My father shook his head. “Ponies always cause trouble, anyway. It’s never just the fault of one.”

My father tapped the open page. “Now, you have six figures here. Normally I’d be able to get them done in a week's time, but, if we have to do so secretly…” He shrugged helplessly. “Well, all I can tell is that it’ll take longer.”

“Maybe even more so, since Easel won’t want to help,” I added.

“That’s fine,” Argyle said. “I don’t have an expected due date in mind.” He seemed about to say more on the matter, but stopped short.

“But how are we going to keep these a secret?” I asked.

“We’ll do one at a time,” my father suggested. “After hours. Maybe we’ll get the earth pony ones out of the way first, since nopony would ask about them. Hrm. I’ll need, probably, a medium-sized chunk… maybe strong oak, or…”

While my father slipped into mutterings, Argyle turned to me. “I have a small favor to ask, Maple, if you don’t mind.”

“What is it, Argyle?”

“Well, you see.” He rubbed one foreleg over the other. “Originally, I was going to ask that just the wooden figures be made. But now that I’ve seen what you can do, I was wondering… would you be willing to paint them for me?”

He looked at me, hesitant. “I know I’m asking a lot, and I can see that this might be putting you and your father at risk, but—”

“Shh.” I put a hoof to his lips, forcing a smile. We were so close I was afraid he might hear the galloping of my heart. “I’ll do it, Argyle. I’ll paint them.”

He smiled with relief. “Thank you, Maple.”

A thought occurred to me. “But… these drawings. They don’t tell me what they looked like.”

“In that case, I guess I’ll have to stop by often, to show you my notes on their appearances…” He turned to my father. “Would that be all right?”

My father had been busy copying down the measurements on a legal pad. He barely glanced up at Argyle. “If you arrive the same way you came, at about the same time, and wait until everyone else has gone before entering, I have no complaints.”

“That sounds good. Thank you. Both of you.”

My father handed the journal back to Argyle. He nodded, then gathered his things and began trotting out the door.

“Thank us?” I called after him. “For what? We haven’t finished anything yet.”

Argyle looked over his shoulder, looking directly at me. “For helping me start fulfilling an old dream.”

And then, he was gone. And I found myself hoping it wouldn’t be for long.

Comments

[Stinium_Ruide]

The best story I have read in a long time. A brilliant piece by Jarvy; I love it so much. I'll be sure to talk about your story in more detail in my blog soon!

[Scholarly-Cimmerian]

Excellent start. I will definitely be following this

[Ri2]

And that's how Argyle met Sunny's mother.

[Dashie04]

I’m in love with these characters already.

[Jarvy Jared]

11146559
Thank you! I hope you continue to love them as you read the rest of the story.

[Eternity 6]

One of the beat things ever is when you read the first paragraph of a story and you already have a smile on your face. Your writing is beautiful I'm looking forward to reading more later.

[Jarvy Jared]

11201882
I hope you enjoy the rest of the story.