First Fruits

by the dobermans

Off

First Fruits was walking alone on a litter of oozy leaves, surrounded by the dark, primeval bodies of ageless trees. The rancid turf made no sound as he wandered, and he was as silent, bating his breath as a swimmer would for fear of inhaling the poison mists that broke across his face. He knew he was dreaming; he had this dream every night.

There was no moon, so he was lost. All around, ill will embodied by creatures that had been twisted by fell magic hung like the odor of carrion. Their presence pressed in on him, promising ambush and death should he make the misstep that triggered their wrath. Still he slogged onward, looking for something that had been given as a quest some time before by a musical voice and curtains of night blue tresses and wings.

An angry scream lifted from the thickets, not unlike that of the coyotes feasting on the burnt bones of the Roses. He stopped and looked to the sky, eager for what came next.

In response to the scream, the clouds above swirled to unveil the full force of the moon. Its silver rays cascaded in waterfalls of light mightier than the waters of Canterlot Mountain, and at its shining center a single, sorrowful eye appeared, as green and patient as the sea. The eye searched, turning to each break in the insidious canopy, reviewing each hopeless, night-beleaguered meadow in vain.

As always, it closed unfulfilled, and a word was whispered and wailed and thundered from the freshest root to the oldest, moss-clothed bole, and all the lost memories of the false reality.

Joyous

***

The dream ended, and First Fruits’ mind spun upward from the deep. He had always wondered what it meant. But now that he knew the true history of his lineage, the connections he was able to make brought no satisfaction: Joyous Grove, his ancestor of old, had seen the Great Evil with his own eyes, and with it the ruin of his life’s work. And now, like Joyous, he was to be an outcast, bound by rules he didn’t understand, let alone have a say in setting.

Gray light weighed on him like lukewarm bathwater while the wandering minutes slipped by. Morning had broken, and his father had not awoken him to start his chores. As he threw his blanket off and ratcheted upright on his mattress, he nearly fell onto the floor. The unease of the dream returned. Outside, the thud and rattle of a hoof against wood echoed like a monstrous chopping block. His father had never missed a day rousing him from sleep as far back as he could remember.

He managed to rise and head to the bathroom. In the mirror, he could see that his wound had dried, and that the edges had crusted over like they should. He smiled at the mouth-shaped hole. Just like Mama, he thought. She always got her point across. Now, in a way, she would be with him wherever he had to go.

When he had finished in the bathroom, he limped downstairs and into the kitchen. The dirty window shone its brownish light across the sink and bow-legged chairs. Instead of his usual tea and plate of oats, a saddle bag and water skin occupied the table. Cinnamon was inspecting them, sniffing and recoiling in turns.

“Guess I know what that all means,” murmured First. He ambled to the table and pulled the bag’s flap open.

There was a jumble of items inside: a hoof-written note lying on top, a quill bound to a thin book, an inkwell, a glass jar of oats, a ball of twine, an old map, and a box of matches. He dug deeper. At the bottom, bundled together so as to take up as little space as possible, were his blades.

Cinnamon bumped his foreleg and rubbed her spine along it as he lifted the note into the sunlight and began to read.

Deer First,

The day has come for you to be off. I wanted to say good-by to you, but there was something wrong with the fence I had to take care of. I’m not allowed to tell you what you have to do or where you need to go. I don’t know either way. But there’s nothing in the rules that says I can’t give you a hoof. So I’m giving you the contents you see in the bag, cause they’re things I wish I had when I went out to make my way.

1. An empty book in case you want to write down your thoughts

2. Some food

3. Twine for whatever requires it

4. A map they say was from the days of the High Sanctuary

5. Matches. A fire is for more than just cooking things

6. Your Rose shears, in case anything needs a trimmin

Your my son, so I know you’ll do alright. You can fight better than I could at your age, and your a likely lad. Speak only when you mean it. Be respectful to mares and your elders. Don’t be stupid. See to those three things and that will get you halfway.

Write to me when you’ve claimed your Sanctuary.

-Da

P.S. Cinnamon’s probably coming with you. You know better than to try to stop her.

First folded the note and tucked it between the blank pages of the journal. “Is that right, Cinnamon? You really coming with me?” He picked her up and tried to look her in the eye. “If you do, who’s going to keep Da company? Help him mind the Roses? No, you gotta stay here. Out on the road ain’t no place for a cat, even if she’s used to the outdoors.”

The cat pumped her forelegs, hanging limp in protest. Sighing, First set her down on the floor. “On the other hoof, I suppose Da’s got Ms. Sugar Plum to talk to if he wants. And the Mulberries.” He slung the tinkling saddlebag onto his back, and poked his muzzle through the strap of the water skin. It slipped down to his shoulders.

As soon as the cargo settled into place, Cinnamon jumped up behind his neck and sat down. He could feel her whiskers tickling his nape.

“OK,” he laughed, “that settles the matter. But if we get into any kind of trouble, don’t blame me.”

He took a hard look around the kitchen, willing the worn dishware and rags and cabinets to be branded into his memory. The sound of his father’s hoof pounding against the fence that they had both repaired a week ago and needed no mending rang out, sending imaginary heads tumbling. Laying a hoof on the back of his mother’s chair, he closed his eyes and spoke to the shadows, “Watch out for me, Mama.”

Before the possibilities of what might happen if she didn’t could creep into his thoughts, he turned, stepped into the brightening morning light, and onto the dusty gravel path that led away from home.

Comments

[jmj]

"In a way, she'd always be with him, " pretty creepy way of doing that but I loved it.

The adventure begins. A boy sets off to become a man.