Cammie

by Jarvy Jared

19 - Last Stop

“Thank you for sweeping up, Juniper,” Ms. Penny said. She was looking over his shoulder at the now spotless classroom, and both her voice and smile betrayed that she was more than impressed.

Juniper flushed with pleasure. “Oh, thank you, Ms. Penny. I just did my best, is all.”

But secretly he felt satisfied, too. Not a few minutes ago, that year’s T.U.E.S. Day had successfully come to a close, and its remnants—piles of glitter, beads, cut lengths of string from friendship bracelets, cardboard paper—had made themselves quite plain over the desks and seats of the classroom. From outside, the cries of rapidly retreating children—not just unicorns, but pegasi and earth ponies who had come to Bridlewood for the day—tickled their ears. Juniper could have followed them. There were two children in particular—an earth pony and a pegasus—whom he’d befriended. But he’d chosen to stay behind to help Ms. Penny clean up the room.

“Still,” she continued, glancing at him then away, “you did an excellent job.”

It was a fleeting glance, but lasted long enough for him to realize that she’d looked at his horn. But he wasn’t bothered. Ponies had stared at his horn for as long as he could remember, and he’d gotten used to that. He knew they felt sad for him, but he did not. Why should he? After all, he felt fine—and with a smile, he looked over the clean room, which he had accomplished with only the broom and his body, and no magic.

“I think that’s everything, then,” Ms. Penny said. She was rummaging around her desk, and he wondered if she was looking for candy. It was no secret she had a weakness for jawbreakers. “Why don’t you head home? I’ll be there after I’ve finished up some paperwork. Do you have the key?”

“Uh huh.” He liked the fact that she gave him a key to her house. It made him feel older. He started to head to the door, then stopped and turned around. His voice became shy. “Could I have one of those candies in your desk?”

Outside, he chewed on the sour-sweet treat that Ms. Penny, flushed with some embarrassment but also laughing at herself, had given him. It was a warm afternoon. An owl in a tree hooted at him, and he grinned and waved at it before it flew away. He trotted ahead on a dirt country road, humming to himself and passing familiar locales: the playground, Alphabittle’s shop, the twisting treehouse of Ol’ Ms. Grayhound (she had another name, but nopony called her that, not even herself). Scattered crystal nodes guarded the edges of the road, making him appear taller or shorter depending on the angle.

He came to a crossroads and stopped. If he took the one on the right, he’d head towards Ms. Penny’s house, where he’d been staying these past several days. But if he took the one on the left, he knew he’d end up at the tea shop.

He hadn’t told Ms. Penny that he’d taken that path every time he left school, just before he arrived at her house, counting on the fact that her paperwork always took her a little bit to finish. He was always only at the shop for a short while, not long enough for anypony to notice. He would look at the curtained windows and think about the items inside, the pots and glasses and mixing bowls that his mother used to brew her delicacies. A few times, he thought about going in, to breathe the stale air of a building abandoned, but each time he’d realize the hour and would turn back, to return the next day.

He looked down that path, picturing the shop in his mind. There was a strange sense that he was forgetting something, but all he could focus on was what he missed about that place. He missed its walls, its tables, the upstairs loft where his bedroom was. But most of all, he missed his mother, missed finding her downstairs already getting breakfast started, missed seeing her set up shop, missed wanting to imitate her. It felt like she’d been gone for months. She’d written him a single letter, which hadn’t told him much—just that she was somewhere called “Ponyville,” and that she loved and missed him, too—but each night since its arrival, he’d gone to bed clutching that letter like it was a stuffed animal to ward off bad dreams.

He liked staying with Ms. Penny. That was true. He liked her big treehouse with more rooms than seemed possible. But it was not the tea shop. It was not home.

That feeling returned—of him forgetting something. But what? He looked down that path, which was marked by shadows and swirling leaves and secrets, and thought that it had to do with the shop.

He was about to take that path, when he heard some sort of commotion coming the other way. Turning around, he made out several voices, all excited. They originated from the heart of Bridlewood. His curiosity was piqued, and he forgot about what he was forgetting to follow the voices.

A crowd had gathered on the crystal-lined path that led out of Bridlewood. Most were unicorns, but some were also earth and pegasi families who had stayed over. Juniper grumbled, too short to see past them.

“... my son,” he then heard somepony say. He recognized it immediately, and as it continued on, he tried to push through the crowd. “I’m looking for him. Have you seen him? He’s got green fur and—”

With a cry, he zipped through an opening he’d forced, rushing blindly forward. At the last second, somepony swept him into her hooves. Her mane tickled his muzzle, making him laugh, and he smelled that familiar scent of tea and wood that could only belong to his mother.

“Juniper!” Chamomile hugged him close. It was then that he noticed that there was another scent on her—several, in fact. Coal or charcoal, and something flowery and earthy, too. “Oh, I missed you so much!” She planted a kiss on his forehead, tickling him pink.

As she set him down, another voice said, “So this is Juniper? He’s absolutely adorable!”

It was a mare. Looking past his mother, Juniper saw that it was an earth pony who had spoken. She had a pink coat and a light-green mane, long and graceful and braided at the end. She smiled kindly at him, and her blue eyes twinkled with good humor. He nearly gasped—she seemed to have stepped out of one of those old fairy tales his mother had once told him.

“Yes, this is him,” his mother said. “Juniper, this is Gaea.”

“It’s nice to meet you, Juniper,” Gaea said. She trotted forward and lowered her head a little to meet his gaze evenly. He felt a little self-conscious, but smiled up at her and did a little bow.

“Oh my!” Gaea exclaimed, bringing a hoof to her lips. “Cammie, you never said your son was a little gentlecolt!”

He grinned impishly, but was more surprised to hear the nickname. Not even Ms. Penny called her that, and they were best friends. He looked at his mother, hoping for an exclamation, but instead, witnessed her cheeks pinkening and heard her emit a bubbly laugh. He couldn’t recall the last time he’d heard her laughing.

“I’m not sure who taught him that, actually,” his mother said.

“Well, it is adorable, believe me.”

His mother smiled, then twisted around. “Now, where’d Clip go? He was with us a moment ago…”

Her voice trailed when she saw the crowd, and Juniper, realizing this, followed her gaze. The crowd had diverted its energies to a unicorn stallion who stood a little distance from them. Juniper didn’t understand they were murmuring around him; he looked ordinary enough. In fact, he thought he recognized him as one of the town’s barbers. It was only when he saw another pony pointing a hoof towards the unicorn’s head that he realized that his horn was missing. Juniper unconsciously started back, more out of surprise than revulsion.

The unicorn stallion looked a little miffed, but appeared more uncomfortable with the attention than with his injury.

“I’ll go help him,” Gaea said.

His mother looked back at her, concern etched into her brows. “Are you sure?”

Gaea smiled at her. It was a beautiful, self-assured smile. “Yeah, it’s no problem. Why don’t you and your son head home? I’ll come find you once I’ve helped out Clip.”

“Okay, Gaea. See you soon.”

Gaea nodded. She glanced at Juniper, catching his gaze. He couldn’t help but look at her in wonder. She seemed a little embarrassed by his staring, but offered him a little wave, before going over to the crowd.

“How are you?” his mother asked him. “Are you hungry? Did you eat? How was school?” She’d settled back into a mothering role so efficiently that Juniper almost didn’t notice himself slip back into quick responses in turn: no, he wasn’t; yes, he had a big lunch today; school was good, it was T.U.E.S. Day and he made some friends. This made her pause, and he asked her what was wrong. “Nothing,” she said, smiling. “I just missed you, that’s all.”

But her smile betrayed some other emotion or thought. She rose, looking down the Bridlewood path. “I guess we should head home, then.”

He nodded—and then, he finally remembered what he had forgotten. His mother read the feeling across his face and became alarmed. “What is it? Is the shop okay?”

“Yes!” he said, a little too quickly, a little too high-pitched for his tastes. He swallowed his excitement and tried to appear calm. “Yes, I, uh, just remembered something, that’s all. Here! We should get going, then!” With a twirl of his mane, he sauntered forward, and heard his mother trotting softly behind him.

---

Chamomile was standing outside of the shop when Gaea arrived. The other mare was frowning with concern as she approached her. “Everything all right?” Gaea asked.

“I’m not sure,” Chamomile murmured. “Juniper said he wanted to take care of something real quick, and asked me to wait outside for him to call.” She glanced at Gaea. “How’s Clip?”

“He’s fine. A little overwhelmed, I think, but I told him that’s because ponies care. That’s what surprised him, for whatever reason.” She laughed a little. Chamomile smiled, but she did not laugh.

“How’d you find this place?” Chamomile asked next. “It’s a bit out of the way.”

“I asked around. You’re right, it’s a little bit away from the main part of town, but I like that.” She looked around her, taking in all of the foliage. “It’s a cozy place. Both Bridlewood, and this shop. I can see why it’s yours.”

“It’s the same feeling you’ll get when you think about your new farm, I’d imagine.”

“I think so.”

“How’s that coming along?”

Gaea sighed, twirling her mane braid. “Well, while I have the money now, the paperwork is going to be a pain for a few weeks. Bureaucracy of a small town and all that. I’ll have to stay at the florist’s a little longer while that’s being settled, then, I suppose.”

“But when the farm’s ready for you, you’ll probably be busy with getting that up and running, right?”

Gaea looked hesitant. She nodded. “Just getting supplies and figuring out what crops to plant for the first rotation is going to be a real time-consumer.” She looked quickly at Chamomile. “I’ll try and visit when I can—I mean that. It’s just—”

“I know,” Chamomile said reassuringly, smiling at her. “We each have our lives to live. But I told you—I’m willing to give this a chance, no matter what comes up.”

Gaea smiled, and then, almost impishly, gave Chamomile a wink. “When the farm’s ready, I hope you’ll visit as soon as I let you know.”

“If you would let me.”

“I would.”

Chamomile nodded, then turned back to the shop. She closed her eyes, trying to discern what her son was doing, but heard nothing coming from the other side. She tried to visualize it—the chairs and tables in their place, each item painstakingly arranged so as to maximize aesthetics and accessibility—but each image she drew up seemed somehow lacking, like her memories of this place were starting to dwindle into twilight-hued husks—a thought that secretly terrified her. She held up a hoof, as though she meant to push through the door, but stopped. The door seemed an impossible distance.

“You’re afraid?” Gaea asked, though it wasn’t much of a question.

Chamomile nodded, slowly turning to look at her. “It’s the silliest thing, I know. This has been something I’ve been thinking about ever since we got back to the Equestrian mainland. Ever since we stopped off at Zephyr Heights…”

She glanced up, as though thinking that, through the leafy canopy, she’d see that city in the distance. Her thoughts collected themselves into a recent memory. Gaea watched her patiently.

After they’d arrived back at the depot, they’d taken another train to drop the workers off at their respective home cities. For the sake of efficiency, three trains were allotted, one for each city, so Chamomile and her friends would end up splitting before she and Clip returned home. But Gaea had said she’d take the train to Bridlewood before catching another for Maretime Bay. Neither Clip nor Polar appeared surprised by this, and, instead, looked knowingly at the two mares. Chamomile could have slapped them as much as she wanted to hug them.

“Then I guess this is where we say our farewells,” Clip said, a bit morosely.

“Oh, don’t be so dramatic,” Polar replied. He was standing in front of the train that would take him back to Zephyr Heights. “It’s only goodbye for now. I know we’ll see each other in the future. You ought to stop by my place! Ma’s got this great cookie recipe that I know you’ll love!”

They promised they’d keep in touch, hugging each other before getting back onto their respective trains. Chamomile, before departing, suddenly felt a need to look at him one last time. When she turned around, she saw he was still on the platform. He was looking up into the sky, and when she followed his gaze, she realized he was looking in the direction of Zephyr Heights—and no doubt the royal palace. She could read his thoughts as though they were her own.

She trotted up to him and asked, “Have you decided?”

He looked at her. His grin was short, yet determined. “I’ve thought long and hard about it, but… yeah. I think I’ve made up my mind.”

“You can’t expect anything, you know.”

“I expect nothing, don’t worry. But I have to do this.” He sighed, looking longingly back towards the palace. “I… I need that closure. It doesn’t matter what that entails, because I think, so long as I have it, I’ll be fine, you know?”

She did know. She turned away from him, briefly, looking back at the passenger cars. There, she caught Gaea’s eye, and they nodded at each other.

“If that’s the case, then: I guess I should wish you good luck,” Chamomile said, returning to Polar.

He chuckled a little. “Luck? Ah, luck’s got nothing to do with it. It’s my decision.” He grinned at her—it was just like the grin he’d given back when they’d first met, brazen, gung-ho, enthusiastic, genuine. “That’s what matters, right?”

And she agreed, giving him one last hug before he stepped onto his own train, and she hers.

But now here she was. Standing outside the shop, seeking her own closure, and unable to enter it—not because of Juniper, but because of herself. She realized she was still holding up her hoof, and brought it down, but the earth felt equally distant to her, like she was about to float away altogether.

Then Gaea was holding her, keeping her grounded. She was telling her to breathe slowly, and it was then that Chamomile noticed that she hadn’t been; her breath was haphazard, rapid. She forced herself to inhale and exhale, deliberately controlled, until she had her breathing back under control.

“It’s all right,” Gaea said. She kept her voice low, between them, so that Juniper would not hear.

“No, it isn’t. How can it be?” She looked at Gaea, who did not waver under her gaze. “I have to walk in there and tell him—tell him, what, exactly? That I failed? Isn’t that the truth?”

“If that’s what you need to tell him.”

“It’s what has to be said.” Chamomile shook her head, closing her eyes. “I just—what if he hates me?”

“He won’t.”

“How can you possibly know that? How can anypony—”

She felt, then, something pressed against her lips. Something warm and delicate. Startled, her voice slipped away. The sensation was quick, fleeting, and when it was gone, she found herself missing it almost as much as she’d missed her son. Gaea’s cheeks were red, but her eyes sparkled with belief.

“He won’t hate you,” she said, “because you’re his mother, and you love him. And….” Chamomile thought she was about to say something else, but instead, Gaea finished, “that’s the truth.”

Chamomile believed her. How could she not? Because Gaea now knew the whole of her. She knew her as Astral once had. She nodded, slowly, not breaking her gaze.

They waited a little longer. Then they both looked at the door. It hadn’t moved or changed, but it still seemed that impossible distance. “It’s been a little bit since he said he’d call,” Chamomile murmured worriedly. “I should…”

“I know,” Gaea said. Chamomile felt her touch her shoulder. “If you want me to go in with you…”

“No,” Chamomile said. Then she added, “Well, not yet. I… I think this is a conversation I need to have with him, on my own.”

Gaea didn’t argue. She pulled her hoof away and offered her another nod.

Chamomile let out her breath. She approached the door. Touched it to make sure it was real. Then, with some effort, she called, “Juniper, I’m coming in,” turned the knob, and let herself enter.

Even though she expected it, she was still surprised to see that everything appeared exactly as she had left it. The circular tables and log chairs, which she now thought were too empty. The walls, dark and shadowy. Curtains that had, for seemingly years, remained stoically still; now, at the opening of the door, they danced awkwardly when the breeze hesitantly touched their spirits. The plants on the shelves, wilting and decaying.

Everything was so overtly dismal and small that she marveled at how she’d failed to notice it. Her mind began mapping out a plan for renewal—the walls would need new paint, and she’d have to ask Alphabittle for his recommendations for mood lighting. Candles, too—scented candles to bring light to the tables, to bring presence and calmness to the customers. Perhaps she’d change out the curtains for brighter colors, things that did not absorb the light so much as redirect it inward. And the plants. New ones were in order—but she knew already who she’d go to for that.

She was so busy planning ahead that she nearly missed the fact that Juniper wasn’t anywhere in the shop. But soon she noticed, and for a moment, panic seized her. Then, as her eyes scanned her surroundings, they perceived that the back door was slightly open. She put her plans on hold, took a breath, and walked through the memories of buried days towards that opening.

Juniper was at the grave. He was squirming over it, and when Chamomile got closer, she realized he was trying to take a sponge to it. A bucket with soapy water was next to him; next to the bucket was a pair of shears. He was grunting with exertion, and did not notice her come up to him until she was right beside him.

“Oh,” he stuttered, putting the sponge down and looking up at her. “Sorry, Mom. I forgot.”

“You forgot? Forgot what, exactly?”

“Forgot to clean Daddy.” He held up the sponge. It had turned gray with his efforts. “After school, I used to come here and sneak around the house to clean, but I forgot to do it today.”

“You didn’t have to do that,” she said quietly. “I could have handled that when I got back.”

“I know. But I wanted to. It made it seem like you were here, too.”

She felt her breath stolen from her. There was another urge to hug him, but she held herself back. She looked past the grave towards the surrounding woods, blinking rapidly. There was nothing there—nothing standing between this space and the woods, nothing that lingered—yet she felt something watching anyway. She understood.

“Here,” she said, kneeling down next to him. “You can help me.”

Together they began to clear the grave of obstruction. She showed Juniper how to handle the shears, encouraging him to cut away the vines, the grass, the lichen. She took the sponge and used one side first to scrape away what remained, then the other side to throw water freshly onto the grave’s face. Juniper dragged over the bucket and brought out another sponge, and she couldn’t help but smile as he went around the other side and mimicked her actions. Soon the light of the afternoon shimmered down from an open spot in the canopy, falling upon the grave, and it seemed to transfigure it from mere granite to marble. Even the words etched for all of posterity on its face—Here lies Astral, much loved and forever missed—seemed to glow.

As they cleaned, as they cut, as they shared in this task, Chamomile heard herself begin to talk. She could not tell him everything, of course—the monster, for instance, could not be mentioned, for she did not want to inflict another nightmare onto Juniper—but mostly everything else, that deserved retelling. Juniper was quiet throughout, listening without interrupting. She told him what she believed was relevant, what she thought was important. She finished by confessing why she’d gone: that she’d wanted to see if there was a way to get his magic back. “But I didn’t find a way,” she said, as much to him as to the grave. “I’m sorry, Juniper.”

Silence.

The wind did not disturb them. The forest melted away until it was just the two of them and the grave. She was aware of every sensation, every nerve firing, and yet curiously felt detached from herself and the scene, like she was partly watching from a distance. She waited. And waited. And resolved to wait for however long it took.

Juniper came around the grave. His face was a carefully drawn mask. She looked blankly at him.

Then, before she could react, he darted forward and hugged her.

Then came his voice, so soft and sweet against her leg: “It’s okay. Thank you for trying, Mama.”

It was enough.

After a time, they gathered up their tools and went back into the shop. “Are you going to open up, now?” Juniper asked after they’d put their tools away.

“We will,” she said with a smile, “but first, there’s somepony else I’d like us to welcome.”

She guided him and herself to the door. Together, they opened it, and like a promise, Gaea was on the other side.

---

Out in the grove, a solitary figure, dark-green and with a mane the color of sand, watched through the window. He knew she would not see him—would not, in fact, for a very long time, if she was lucky. But the figure did not mind.

Then Juniper turned his head and glanced out the window. It lasted a second, before he turned away. It was unclear if he had seen the figure, or if the figure had truly seen him.

The wind rose a little. A shrill, whistling sound, like a conductor’s signal for departure. The figure nodded to himself and then, because it seemed appropriate, gave a final wave, before he faded back into the forest’s loam like lines of tracks vanishing into the past—or even the future.

The End

Comments

[Thought Prism]

This was a beautiful tale of love, loss, and acceptance. Of learning to look forward instead of back, of cherishing those in your life, old and new.

[Jarvy Jared]

11494763
I'm glad you enjoyed it! I really wanted this to be a story about those three things, but I wanted it to also not be afraid to admit it isn't as easy as it is said.

[Turbotune]

I……actually have been so caught up with Chamomile's tale that I had forgotten about her promise to find magic for her son. But then again, Chamomile did find some magic of love on her trip. And little Juniper just kept being an innocent child with "magical" love for her mother. I guess at the end of their little story they did get some magic and made the family whole again. Chamomile used up all her magic (temporarily), but she got to treat her life better again and start a new life with a new love (which is already super magical on its own).

Needless to say whatever happens next they will never be lonely facing them. I'm certain that he'll get that magic eventually. Their new story has just begun, afterall!