The Parable of the Toymaker

by Jarvy Jared

Chapter Two

The next morning, my father awoke at his usual time: an hour before the sun dawned. Coming down from the loft that contained our two bedrooms, he immediately pulled open the blinds, and went to work. He dusted the displays that held prominent examples of his craft; he swept away the lingering scraps of wood shavings that rested in the corners of the shop like dust sprites; he counted up the register, just to see if any coins had come and gone during the night; and then, as was part of his ritual, he threw open the door, a bag of bits in his hoof, and headed out to Maretime Bay to grab us breakfast.

I awoke about an hour later to the familiar smell of wood and bagels. Downstairs, I found my father at his counter, taking a file to an old carving of a duck. He did not look up at me, but did not need to, and instead pushed the paper bag filled with bagels my way. “Cream cheese is in the fridge,” he said. “We still had some left over.”

And I was more than happy to finish that container off.

While I ate, careful not to spill any seeds, I watched my father polish and refine. It was part of my morning routine. Something about watching my father casually apply an expert eye to whatever model he had chosen proved more capable of waking me up than any kind of caffeinated beverage.

Normally my father would perform this task with such focus that sometimes he forgot I was there. Today was different. Every now and then, he’d glance up, first at me, then the door, then back to the wooden duck. Then his eyes would wander to the drawer under the counter which housed the notepads with all the measurements he’d taken of various commissions. It was easy to see what he was thinking about.

“Excited?” I asked.

That caught my father off-guard, and the file slipped out of his hooves. “It’s an interesting request,” he said as he went to retrieve it.

“Uh huh.” And yet, it was more than that. My father primarily used “interesting” the same way someone might use “hot” to describe the sun or “wet” to describe the ocean. It was superfluous filler, a word used in place of silence because it was sufficiently simple. But when he said it now, I believed he truly meant it, and then some. Something about the matter intrigued him, but I couldn’t say exactly what.

Nor could I say why, in my case, I was also excited. It was more than the fact that the whole thing was a secret wrapped up in the velvet earnestness of a strange yet heartfelt request. The thought of helping to make what were essentially our tribe’s greatest enemies terrified and thrilled me, yes, but that wasn’t it, either.

As I finished eating my bagel, a name struck me: Argyle. My cheeks darkened, and I turned away to cough, hoping my father hadn’t caught my strange behavior.

My father continued to busy himself by filing, but could not keep from becoming distracted. With a somewhat childish snort of disgust, he placed the file and duck to the side. “Where’s Easel?” he grumbled. He did not wait for an answer, choosing instead to disappear into his workshop for the time being. “Do you mind finishing setting up?” he asked me before going in.

I started. “O-of course. But—”

He’d closed the door already, leaving the rest of my statement unresolved. I shrugged. Some idea was no doubt nagging him, and he would have to come out sometime, I reasoned.

There was not much left for me to do—all of the usual tasks had been completed before I had a chance to get to them. As such, all that was left to do was officially open, and also wait for Easel Chisel to turn up for work.

He arrived late in the morning, and it was like the events of yesterday hadn’t even happened. Carelessly swinging the door open to the point where the hinges squeaked in protest, he entered the shop, wearing a wide grin and carrying himself quite highly. He looked around and, after seeing me set up a few cans of paint, approached.

“Morning, Maple. Where’s your father?” he asked.

Immediately I stiffened. Easel had never failed to address my father properly, even in his more emotional moments. Something was different, all right. “He’s in the back,” I said, trying to sound carefree. “Working.” I continued to stack the cans of paint, but one eye remained on Easel.

Easel went to his station to also begin setting things up. “What on?” he asked, looking towards the closed door.

“Something of his.” I shrugged. Inwardly I felt suddenly claustrophobic. “You know how he is.”

“Yeah. Yeah, I do.” He laughed a little. “You remember when one of the customers interrupted him while he was busy shaving down a wooden penguin? Priceless! I still can’t believe that the customer still came back the next day!”

I nodded, though I did not laugh myself. “And… as I recall, the whole reason the customer interrupted him was because you said he could enter the workshop.”

Easel waved a hoof dismissively. “Eh. I thought it’d be an exception to that rule, but I guess I was wrong. Your father—”

He caught himself, stopping short, then shook his head. “Well, never mind that. Actually, there was something I wanted to ask you, Maple.”

“Me?” I tried to sound casual, even as a bit of annoyance crept into my voice. He had hidden it well, but I could still sense a bit of anger directed towards my father, though if it was for the events Easel had described or for the ones from yesterday, I could not tell.

“Yeah. There’s a movie happening in Maretime Bay later this evening. It looks interesting. Something about monsters attacking a beach-side resort. I thought I might swing by later and grab a ticket. If you want, I could grab you one, too.”

I resisted the urge to roll my eyes. The attempt was poor, if somewhat clever. “That doesn’t really sound like my kind of movie, Easel. I think I’m going to have to pass.”

“Oh? And what is your kind of movie?”

“I don’t know. Definitely not monster ones.”

“Action? Suspense? Thriller?”

“I don’t know. Something more hopeful. I haven’t seen a whole lot of them.”

He grinned toothily at me. “That’s because you haven’t seen a whole lot of them with me.”

I frowned at him. “It’s more than that. You remember what happened the last time all of us went into town? Everypony kept commenting about my eyes.”

“Your eyes… Oh.” Easel’s ears wilted. “Right. Sorry.”

I sighed. It was a bit of a sore subject. In theory there was absolutely nothing wrong with my eyes—I saw the world all the same. But apparently mine were a little different, a little glassy, and some ponies found that disconcerting upon first glance. It didn’t help that my sensitivity to others’ emotions meant that although they approached us with politeness, their concern and anxiety towards me was as evident as though they’d spoken. The last time I was in Maretime Bay, I had to duck into the bagel shop from which my father had gotten those breakfast items in order to give myself some space from everypony. It was not an experience I wanted to repeat.

“Well… maybe something else? For another time?” Easel suggested.

I shrugged noncommittally. “We’ll see. We’re super busy as is, so I honestly doubt that either of us will have any amount of free time.”

“Right, right...”

We were quiet for a time. Easel’s entrance had left the door a little open, letting us hear the crash of the ocean. The waves sounded a little more violent today, but I chalked that up to my imagination. Yet I could not bring myself to close that door. I was afraid that the moment I left my position, Easel would steal away into my father’s workroom, and a fight would ensue.

While he was putting on his work apron, Easel said, “That Argyle creep hasn’t come back, has he?”

That question, along with the insult, took me by surprise, causing me to drop one of the cans. It landed with a harsh thud, and though it didn’t break, the resulting echo still caused me to wince. I stole a glance at the workshop. The door was still closed.

“Well?” Easel didn’t seem to notice what had happened. He was fiddling with the straps of his apron, anxious—but, as I expected, also angry.

I bent to pick up the can. “No,” I said. I almost added, “Not yet,” but I knew it was better if Easel didn’t know about what we’d arranged with Argyle.

Easel nodded stiffly. “Good. That’s real good to hear. We don’t need that kind of nonsense filling up the shop.”

I didn’t answer. His anger was at a level I’d never felt from him before, and seemed to pollute every word, making it hard to listen to him.

“You’d honestly think that he’d know better,” Easel continued. He laughed to himself. “Those types always think they do. But then you smack them with reality and they realize they don’t know as much as they’d thought.”

“Those types?” I blurted.

“Oh, yes. You know. The ‘I specialize in this one niche field so I’m suddenly somepony special and important.’ They always think they’re better than the rest of us.”

“Argyle didn’t say anything like that,” I replied. Careful though I was to keep my voice even, I nonetheless felt an ugly tremor pass through me.

“Nothing explicit, you mean. But he totally was saying it in subtext. Go out a little more, Maple,” he added with an impish grin. “You’ll see what I mean. Heck, if you want, I could even show you.”

“You shouldn’t say such things.”

“Why not? It’s not like Argyle’s around, right?”

I glared at Easel, but this had a different effect; rather than shrivel up, he simply chuckled at my reaction. “Come on,” he said, “lighten up a bit. The day’s about to start.”

I turned away with a barely disguised snort. On cue, the first customer entered the shop, and Easel changed his scorn into practiced cheerfulness. For my sake, I tried to do the same.

All day I was in two places. One was in the shop, handling orders, talking to customers, giving advice as to which model was best for their kid, what paints I used and would recommend; the other was outside, on the jetty overlooking the ocean, waiting to see those familiar white sails coming across the horizon. I wanted the boat to come sailing in, proudly, like it was the head of a royal fleet. I wanted Argyle to appear, him and his easy smile, and I wanted him to announce himself in the doorway and refute everything Easel had said about him in a way that I could not. And I wanted, surprisingly, to ask him about his dream, why he had written down all those notes, and for what purpose would these wooden figurines serve.

But this place existed only in my mind. I could not leave the shop unattended—or more accurately, in Easel’s hooves—just to stand outside and wait, no matter how much I wanted to. The best that I could do was work quickly through each customer's request and pray that doing so would push the day forward.

The only consolation through this was that we were busy, and that, because of this, Easel was unable to contribute more snide remarks. But meanwhile, my father did not leave his workshop once, not even for lunch. This was not so unusual a thing, but my curiosity grew whenever I found myself looking at the closed workshop door. He’d long since ceased making any discernible noise, which may have meant he truly was in the middle of an arduous project, or (and the thought managed to brighten my gloom momentarily) he had fallen asleep. But just as I could not leave the shop, neither could I check up on him.

Day passed into afternoon, then into evening. The customers cleared out, and as we were cleaning up, Easel looked at the workshop door. “He hasn’t come out all day?”

Sharply, I looked at him, and found his gaze stuck there. “No, I guess not,” I said.

“Hmm. Strange.”

He did not ask if my father was okay. Instead, he rested his chin on his broom, looking intently at the door, as though wanting to throw it open using only his mind. When he finally put the broom away, he shook his head, as though disappointed in my father.

“Maybe I’ll see him tomorrow?” he asked me. He did not sound particularly hopeful or upset by the prospect, and, in fact, reminded me of how my father usually used “interesting.” This seemed another phrase meant only to fill gaps of silence, though this time it was gaps of understanding instead.

“Maybe,” I replied. But I was uneasy. I could not tell what Easel was thinking, but felt something stirring in him that did not appear wholly good.

Even after he had left, Easel’s comments still haunted me. I looked out the window, watching as the ocean turned inky-purple, and thought about Argyle. It made no sense to expect him to show up just the day after he arrived, of course, but I could not help but wish he would, if only to reassure me that he was not who Easel had made him out to be.

I could see from under the workshop door a thin, pale light. I hesitated. I knew my father preferred that no one, not even me, interrupt him when he was in his workshop, but he had taken breaks all those other times. He’d never stayed in the room for so long, not even for his largest projects.

Slowly, I made my way to the door and placed my ear against it. It was with relief that I heard my father’s steady, gentle breathing. Still, I wanted to let him know that Easel had gone home. I turned the knob and pushed the door open.

My father was hunched over the workbench, asleep, like a large brown boulder in a forest. His breathing was slow, almost as methodical when he was awake, and a few snores escaped his lips. I looked past him, curious as to what had made him slip into slumber. There sat, swaddled in the soft light of the workshop, a single, miniature wooden pony, complete with a sweeping tail and mane. It was made from the finest brasswood we had, the remains of which could be seen nearby in the shavings and scraps and dust that covered all of the tools in my father’s arsenal. It was impossible to tell that the figure had ever sprung from a crude block of wood—it seemed as though it had always existed in the form that I saw now.

I was familiar with my father’s work and knew he truly was a master at it, but as I drew closer to the workbench, I began to believe that this was his finest masterpiece. The wooden pony seemed filled with a liveliness that couldn’t be contained. I could barely make out the thin lines that revealed the original tree’s many grooves and edges. There were no awkward cuts, no clearly rough sections in need of intense sanding. It was, I thought, the closest to marble wood ever could be.

Pulled by its impossible allure, I raised a hoof to inspect it up close. At that moment, my father stirred. His eyes slowly opened, momentarily drowsy, but when he saw me, a hoof outstretched, it was like somepony had pulled a cord.

“Don’t touch it!”

His voice shook me. Crying out, I stumbled back. Not seeing what was behind me, I tripped on something and fell, shaking the whole room. The wooden figure teetered, about to fall as well, but my father shot forward with surprising speed and managed to catch it in time.

Just as quickly, he was by my side, helping me to my hooves. “Are you hurt?” he asked gruffly. Concern was in his eyes.

I winced. “I'm a little sore, but I’ll be fine.” I looked questioningly at him. “What’s with you?”

He stepped away. I saw that his notepad of measurements stuck out of his apron. He caught my gaze and for some reason moved to hide it, then, sighing, gave up on the matter. “Sorry,” he said. “For a moment I thought you were somepony else.”

“If you mean Easel, he’s already gone home. It’s evening already.”

“Is it?” my father squinted through the only window available in the workshop. “So it is… How was the shop?”

“The shop was fine. We were quite busy. Even Easel was asking about you. You didn’t hear him?”

My father shook his head. “Huh,” I said, relieved. “I guess you must have really been into this.” I walked past him and returned to the workbench. “Is it what I think it is?”

He joined me at the bench. “It is. The first one, in fact.”

“I thought you were going to wait until evening to do it?”

“I couldn’t wait,” he answered simply. I giggled at his response. “Had I, it’s likely I wouldn’t have finished it until much later.”

“So it was a hard model to make?”

“Not really.” He withdrew his hoof and walked around to the other side of the table. He took out the notepad and placed it down, turning it so I could see what was written. “It’s just that our new customer had given plenty of specific requirements. Some, I had to change, but the rest worked fine.”

I flipped through the pages, examining the numbers that my father had copied down. “Shouldn’t that have made it easier, though? Most customers can’t be bothered to tell the length of even one side.”

My father seemed to hesitate. “Yes, well…” He looked down at the figure, and his eyes became distant, in a way similar but different to how they’d appear when he thought of my mother. “I suppose it would have been easier, yes.”

“Then… why did you take so long?

“…Perhaps because I wanted to make this right.”

It looked right, more than right, at least to me, but my father must have meant something else. He looked, for a second, at me, some strange expression on his face, before he returned to looking at the figure.

I also looked at it. “Who is it?” I asked in a soft voice.

“According to Argyle’s notes, it’ll be Applejack. Look at her face, closely. Do you see those dots?” I did. “They’re her freckles. She also wears a hat, which I’ll have to carve out of another block.”

My father looked at me. “You’ll be painting her?”

“I…” Why was I all of a sudden afraid to say it? Perhaps it was because, though my father did not say it, there was an enormous importance placed on this task, a holiness that I did not want to besmirch. I swallowed my fear. “Yes. I will. Once Argyle comes back. Or if…”

“He’ll be back,” my father said. “Of course he will.”

Then, as though he was cradling a child, he picked up the wooden figure and carried it over to one of the drawers. It was full of old wood, which he pushed aside to make room. “We’ll leave her here for now,” he said, “until all her friends are ready.”

“Friends? You mean, her and the others? Even the non-earth ponies?”

“Even, and especially.”

“But how do you know they’re friends?”

He did not answer. He closed the drawer and asked me to help put his tools away. Diligently I did, but his reticence bothered me. It wasn’t like him to put stock in what was essentially just feeling—that was my job.

When we were leaving the workshop, though, I noticed that he’d left the light on. “Oh,” was all he said before turning it off, but he seemed just as surprised by his thoughtlessness as me.

Comments

[Thought Prism]

Even after only a short time, all these characters feel very well developed. I already dislike Easel more than any of the film's antagonists, haha.

[Jarvy Jared]

11140605
Yep! My intention was to try and render these characters as well as I could even in only a short amount of words.