The Parable of the Toymaker

by Jarvy Jared

Chapter Three

Argyle returned at the end of the week, via boat, of course, right as we had closed. Easel had already gone home, and I was glad—his jibes had become so pin-pricky that I could barely stand in the same room as him. It seemed that Argyle not being there during the week had emboldened Easel to aggression, and the days with him had consisted largely of him disparaging Argyle’s name and research. I had tried not to let it get to me, in order not to reveal mine and my father’s secret. But that had proved exhausting, and my attempts at redirecting the conversation resulted in little progress, such that by the end of the week I had chosen instead to stew in silence, hoping that would dissuade Easel from speaking out.

Of all his comments, one thing stuck out the most. He’d said it on the last day of the week. He’d noted that my father did not come out of his workshop to talk to any of the customers. “Must be some super secretive project,” he muttered under his breath, as though not wanting me to hear; but hear him I did, and it caused a moment of panic to surge through me. But he did not investigate further. He simply shook his head, grabbed his belongings, said goodbye to me, and left. I hoped he would chalk this up only to my father’s eccentricity.

When Argyle arrived finally, it was as though all of my exhaustion was exhumed. His easy-going smile and full knapsack were welcome sights, and I could not contain my enthusiasm when I came out to greet him—I hugged him without thinking of the sailor, who watched, still amused.

“Oof! Hey, Maple. I’m happy to see you, too. How’s the shop?”

I told him that things were good, business was steady. I told him how We’d sold that old set of figures—the ones that had granted me my Cutie Mark—to a mother and her twin daughters.

Argyle smiled at these things. Then, as we entered the shop, he said, “I’m glad to hear that things are still going well. And how have you been?”

I laughed, but, for some inexplicable reason, became flustered. My mind jumped back to Easel, and I found myself wanting to tell Argyle, but thought it would be wrong to sour his jolly mood with my doubts. “I’ve been good,” I managed to say, then cringed, for it sounded so awkward to me. But Argyle didn’t comment on it.

“There you are,” came my father’s voice. We saw him come out of the workshop, his apron covered in shavings and flakes. He was smiling. “It’s good to see you again, Argyle.”

“Good to see you as well. How are you, Master Mallet?”

My father waved a hoof dismissively. “Bah, that is irrelevant. The work is what matters. Speaking of…” He held open the door and gestured us in. “Come, come.”

“Wait,” I said. “Dad, are you sure…”

“Of course I’m sure. It’s his stuff. It wouldn’t be right hiding it from him.”

“My stuff?” Argyle asked, excitement in his voice.

“Yes, yes!” My father spoke impatiently, and his gestures mirrored his tone. “Come in! Never mind the mess.”

Where there had previously been one figure on the workbench, now there were three. Each came with a uniquely styled mane and tail, and all had received the same degree of craftsmanship and care. One of them, I saw, even had a pair of wings attached to their torso, and one of her eyes hid behind her mane in a shy manner.

“Wow,” Argyle breathed. He came closer to the models. “These must be Applejack, Pinkie Pie, and Fluttershy!”

“Correct,” my father said. He tapped his chest proudly. “I hope you don’t mind the change in how I modeled the wings. I know in your drawings, the wings were out-spread, but I decided to keep them to her side. That ensures they won’t accidentally break.”

“I wouldn’t have thought about that. But then again, I guess that is why you’re the master.” Argyle let out a low whistle. “Honestly, this is more than I had expected. I would have been just as happy to see only one!”

“He’s been working on them every day,” I explained. Easel’s observation whispered in the back of my mind, but I shoved it aside. “Even during shop hours. It’s how he managed to get all three done.”

“I’m grateful for your commitment, Master Mallet.”

“Pshaw.” My father grunted. “Save your gratitude for when I’m finished with all six. I trust you’ve brought your work?”

“I have, but honestly I’m not sure if you’ll need them, since you took down your own reference sketches when we first met.”

“They’re not for me. They’re for my daughter. I understand you’ll be helping her paint.”

Argyle looked at me. “Well, not paint paint. But I said I’d be able to show you some colored references to help with choosing the colors.”

“I appreciate the help,” I said. I felt a strange flutter of emotion, and it took me a second to realize it was from me.

“Excellent. Maple, why don’t you and Argyle set up over there?” My father pointed to one of the tables in the workshop. “You can start painting Applejack. Oh, and one more thing.”

From a small drawer he picked out a little wooden hat. “You’ll need this for her.”

My father settled himself at the workbench, while I momentarily stepped outside to grab a few cans of paint and my palette from my room. When I returned, I saw that Argyle had already sat down, the Applejack figure placed in front of him. He was smiling, but sat a bit awkwardly, rocking back and forth on his seat a little.

When I sat down, he retrieved his journal from his knapsack and opened it up for both of us to see. He flipped past the initial reference pages to one that had a few colored photographs. They appeared to be of a stained-glass window, with simple figures in the shape of ponies taking central focus.

“These are… references? Actual references?” I was impressed.

“My research has to be thorough.” He seemed about to explain why, then stopped short. “Anyway, there you have it. I’ll let you to it, then.”

It was easy to find the right shade of orange for Applejack. I placed a glob on my palette. Then I dipped one of the brushes and held it before the figure. But I didn’t move. It seemed as though the room had shrunk. While I could see my father working out of the corner of my eye, my attention was focused on the top of the brush. But more than that, it was on the fact that Argyle sat just in front of me, so close that I could see a thin stubble starting to grow like blue foliage around his chin. I could see myself in his glasses, and this suddenly made me very aware of the fact that I hadn’t bothered to wipe either the sawdust or paint from my apron, or comb my mane after a morning breeze had disrupted it, and a thousand other minor grievances and inconveniences of the body that seemed to have been magnified by the same amount.

I put my brush down.

“Maple?” Argyle’s voice was filled with concern. “What’s wrong?”

“Ah, well…” I felt a bout of weak laughter bubble up inside me. “It’s just, um… I haven’t even painted anything in front of somepony else. Aside from my dad, I mean…”

“Oh! I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.” How anypony’s smile could be so unwavering was beyond me. “You have my notes, so you should be fine. Should I go wait on the boat?”

“N-no, no! O-of course not!” There was a shrill in my voice, which I hated. “I-I don’t mind. It’s just something I’m not used to. You… you can stay.”

“Are you sure? I don’t mind. I could even just wait outside the workshop, if you want.”

“It’s fine. Really!”

Somehow, I managed to convince him. “All right,” he said. “I’ll stay.”

I nodded, and picked up my brush. I attempted a few tentative strokes against the wooden, naked body. But the silence weighed heavily on me. I was hyper-aware of our breathing, of the sound of my father filing and cutting a new block of wood. I felt cramped, and couldn’t focus on painting in the slightest.

I couldn’t take it. Finally I said, “Actually…” And trailed.

“Yes?” Argyle replied kindly. “What is it, Maple?”

My cheeks darkening were not, I hoped, as obvious to him as they were to me. I swallowed. “Could… could you tell me about your research?”

Argyle blinked at me. “My research?”

“Yeah. You said you’re an archaeologist, studying ancient Equestria.” I pursed my lips. “What… what was it like back then?”

So he told me.

In that moment, I wondered if he had chosen the wrong profession for himself. For Argyle no longer seemed to have a talent only for unearthing artifacts and hidden troves of history. He was a gifted storyteller, too. He told me about the past—a past that did not seem real, could not be; a past that clashed against everything I had ever known. He told me about those six ponies, how, despite their many differences, they were friends—nopony was scared of being laser-blasted, of being aerially abducted, of being stomped to death. He told me about Twilight Sparkle, who, with her wings and horn, was an alicorn, a representation of unity between all three tribes. And he told me how it wasn’t just her and her friends. Friendship between all kinds of ponies had once existed, and even between ponies and non-ponies. This was Equestria, he said; this was who we used to be.

“It really was like that?” I asked at one point. I had been so enthralled by his story that I could not tell if my father was still in the workshop with us. I had been painting Applejack while Argyle talked, and for some reason, the color seemed more vibrant now, and her body seemed to emit a healthy glow.

“Yes,” he said. There wasn’t a trace of doubt in his voice. “All of us—all the unicorns, the pegasi, the earth ponies, and all sorts of creatures—lived together in harmony.” He smiled, but then his gaze turned wistful. He looked away, staring at the Applejack figure coming to life, and I got the feeling he was seeing something else entirely. “Can you even imagine what that must have been like?”

“To be honest, it sounds like something out of a fairy tale.”

“Hmm. Maybe. But a lot of fairy tales hold a nugget of truth in them. We just forget that over time.”

“Is that what happened?” I’d lowered my voice, now looking directly at Argyle. “Are you saying we… forgot?”

He met my gaze, and his face adopted a pained expression. “I’m not sure. All that my research has uncovered so far was that things used to be different—we were different. But as to what led up to this change…” He shrugged, smiling helplessly.

Applejack’s body was finally complete, so I consulted Argyle’s notes to view what other colors she had, then prepared them on my palette. I glanced at my father. He was still working on cutting and measuring the wood. I could not tell if he had heard our conversation. “Can I ask you something?” Argyle’s voice was so soft, I almost didn’t hear it. I nodded my assent. “Why are you doing this?”

Then he laughed. “Wait. I’m sorry. That’s not really being specific, is it? What I mean is, why did you agree to help out with this?”

“I…”

Somehow I hadn’t even considered that question before. I looked between Argyle and the figure. “I… you mean, painting? It’s… It’s what I do.”

“Very well, I might add. But that’s not quite what I meant.” He rubbed his hooves together. “I mean, why are you helping me? You and your father? Not that I don’t appreciate it, it’s just…” Again trailing, he coughed and looked sheepish. “I’m sorry, I don’t think I’m making a whole lot of sense.”

He was quiet, and so was I. The workshop was filled only with the sound of my father laboring.

“I guess…” I looked down at the Applejack figure. It looked smaller now. Fragile. It may have been made of sturdy wood, but even that, as evidenced, could be hacked away with the right amount of force and direction.

Argyle was looking expectantly at me. I put the brush down with a sigh. “I guess it’s just…” I frowned, trying to think.

“It’s hard to believe, isn’t it?” There was laughter behind his gentle voice, but it sounded a note too sour to me.

“Yes,” I admitted, “but you believe it. Don’t you?”

“I do.”

“Then… then I want to believe it, too. And that’s why…”

I picked up my brush once more. I dabbed at the areas where my father had indicated her freckles, and they appeared like little glowstones. Then I changed colors, working green into her eyes. I tried to make them pop, to give them the same liveliness that had spurred Argyle to tell his story. Finally, I consulted Argyle’s notes, and found Applejack’s Cutie Mark: three apples neatly arranged on both sides of her. These I painted gingerly, like it was not sturdy wood I handled, but a real pony, prone to pain, to pleasure.

The final thing I painted was the hat my father had given me. When I was done, I placed it next to the figure. Already I could imagine how Applejack would look once everything was dried and complete, and thought that she looked as lovely as anything else. All of them would be. And perhaps they all were lovely, at one point, if what Argyle said was true.

Of course it’s true.

“I can do this,” I said, “for this.”

We were quiet for a time, though it was not as awkward or as heavy as before. I provided a few finishing touches to Applejack and showed Argyle, who nodded with sage approval. We would have to let her sit for a time in order for the paint to dry, before we could move her; so, we decided that our table would be where we’d put all the wooden figures once they were ready.

“We can move to one of the other figures, then, if you want,” Argyle said.

“Yeah. That’s a good idea.”

He made to get up and grab one of them, but I stopped him. “Argyle…”

“Yes. Maple?”

“About Equestria, and all those old stories… the myths, or if they were real… do you think we could ever go back to those times?”

He frowned for a second, looking away from me. I thought I’d upset him somehow. But then he looked back at me, and he was smiling, and something seemed to glow in his eyes. “I think, if more ponies thought like you, we definitely might.”

Comments

[howard035]

I am very curious what Argyle's original plans for these dolls was.