Cammie

by Jarvy Jared

6 - Leaving the Badlands

Chamomile’s pen fluttered in her magic. The words before her were blurry scribbles, and she had to blink a few times before she figured out what she was writing. She’d zoned out again, hadn’t she?

Looking up, she spied the clerk watching her, but he looked away once he realized he’d been caught. Some displeasure wound its way into her throat, and she almost called him out, but she realized that she must have been staring into space for a while now. That nopony else was in the post office at the moment was surely odd enough, so to have some mare stumble in, ask for a paper and a pen, and then spend several minutes not writing, must have accentuated that perplexity.

She sighed. The heat, she wanted to say—it had that consistently vicious effect of lulling her mind towards placidity, distracting her.. But something warned her that nopony would believe her, least of all herself.

She looked back at her letter. There was nothing left to say in it, so she quickly wrote the final line—Love, your mother—then sealed it in the envelope. She placed the stamp at the corner, then brought the envelope up to the counter. Another clerk—not the one who’d been spying on her—came and took it with a smile. She returned one in half-measure.

In the post office’s lobby, just outside of the main area, Gaea and Clip sat. They’d insisted on accompanying her to the office, because they didn’t want her to have another dizzy spell unattended. She’d tried to persuade them otherwise, but steadfastly they’d refused to give in. Their stubbornness was almost admirable. In the end, it was only with the promise that they’d wait in the lobby for her that she’d allowed them to come with.

Clip got off the bench. “Finished your letter?” he said.

Chamomile nodded, not trusting herself to say anything. Clip was frowning. “I still don’t know why you didn’t want us to come in,” he said.

“It was for privacy.”

“Over a letter?”

Hearing it out loud only reminded her how thin her reasoning had been. Clip had protested against it, citing her dizziness as reason to make sure she wasn’t alone for a while, but she suspected that he was simply curious as to what she was hiding.

And what was she hiding? Even now she was confused by herself. A letter to Bridlewood, to her son—that was hardly a secret worth keeping. But even as she knew this consciously, something prevented from saying it outright. It was not compulsion—it was instinct, learned, for protection. She supposed protection factored similarly here, but protection from what?

She could see the question on Clip’s lips. It was mirrored on Gaea’s troubled and forlorn expression. Both only increased her unease, but seeing it on Gaea felt more significant, somehow. As though she had sensed something that Chamomile had herself not, and that this added more to her befuddlement.

She opened her mouth, like she was about to ask her something. Chamomile had the impression that she would have a hard time refusing.

But instead, a sigh escaped Gaea. It was hard to tell if it was out of disappointment or general tiredness—while the lobby had cooled them, they could feel the sun beat through the glass doors, and Gaea’s pink coat was starting to alarmingly redden. “Do either of you know when the train will finish refueling?” she asked.

Clip and Chamomile looked at each other. “Not me,” Chamomile said. “Zipp seemed to think it wouldn’t be for a few hours.”

“That was this morning. You’d think it’d be ready by now.” She looked through the doors in the direction of the train.

“The conductor will probably let us know,” Clip said. “By a whistle, maybe. Or some kind of megaphone. We’ll know.”

“Yeah…”

Gaea seemed lost in thought.

“Why don’t we walk around for a while, then?” Chamomile suggested, as much to her surprise as theirs. “It’ll help pass the time.”

They agreed. Striding out the double doors, they were met with the heat of the afternoon, and an air whose stifling nature brought to mind that terribly humid day. Chamomile led them, walking quickly, trying to outrun that memory, and the other two had to up their pace just to keep up. The surrounding husks of buildings provided enough shade that walking under them was a relief, and that coolness brought Chamomile back to her senses, slowing her down long enough for the other two to catch up.

“What’s with you?” Clip asked.

She searched for an excuse. “I was just… thinking about Polar.” Then, not wanting to reveal her own surprise at reaching that topic, she continued deftly, “Have either of you seen him around?”

They shook their heads. “It’s strange, isn’t it?” she said.

“It is,” Gaea murmured. “You don’t think he’s abandoned the team, do you?”

“I don’t see why he would,” Clip said. “There’s nowhere to go.”

“Maybe we should look for him.”

“Why?”

“Because we should,” Gaea said. She nodded at Chamomile, who, given this sudden approval, felt a little something flip in her stomach. Gaea’s eyes were soft, her voice as distinct as a woodpecker. “He might miss the train.”

They resumed their trot, this time sticking a little closer together. Yet this proved to be a disastrous strategy. The sun moved just enough so that the shade lessened, and the air seemed to bake and broil. Soon sweat dripped freely down their bodies and their breathing became slightly labored.

They passed several ponies—workers, all of them—and asked if they’d seen somepony of Polar’s description. Most said they hadn’t, but one of them suggested he’d gone into a building just two blocks ahead. “At least, I thought I saw somepony of that description.”

“We’ll check it out. Thank you.”

Two blocks later, they now stood in front of a two-story cottage that dimly swelled with mild activity. There was a sign squeaking on a rusty hinge, but on it were only two letters—P and B, on different lines—and a bunch of empty spaces. The lights were on and some music was playing, but it was unclear if it was a band or a recording.

“Hmm,” Clip said. He peered through one of the windows. “I don’t see him… but if that pony said he’s here…” He continued to look while Chamomile surveyed the building from the road.

Gaea took one look at the building and froze. Chamomile smelled something off of her—which may equally have been the potency of the heat talking as much as that primal part of all ponies which are capable of registering certain emotive smells. It was the bitter, pungent smell of fear, and without thinking, she stepped closer to her. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

“It’s… I…” Gaea opened and closed her mouth a few times, then looked at Chamomile. She started back. Chamomile then became aware of how close she’d gotten, and so stepped away, feeling her cheeks blossom. Clip continued to search, ignorant of what was happening.

“Gaea?” Chamomile prompted.

Gaea turned her head. Her jaw was set, and it took a moment for her to speak. “I’m not going in.”

“You’re not?”

“No. I’m not.”

“Why not?”

Gaea gave her a look. It was a quick, fleeting look, one that was erased when she looked away again, but it lasted long enough for Chamomile to realize she was intruding upon something larger than herself. It was a place where nopony could go without special permission and in special circumstances. It was that space deep inside one’s body, so deep that the light of the world cannot reach it, covered in the foggy cobwebs of the unforgotten, with scrawlings made in the chalk of secrets.

It was a familiar place for Chamomile. And she knew that it was not a place she’d want a stranger to enter.

“All right,” Chamomile said softly. Gaea’s head turned again, this time sharply, and surprise shone brightly in her face. “You wait here, then, all right?” She thought about smiling—it remained only a thought.

Gaea didn’t seem to understand. Chamomile was already backing away from her, though, so she stuttered, “Right.”

Chamomile approached the door, watching as Clip continued her inspection. Just as she was about to call out to him to say she was going in, she heard heavy hoofsteps from the other side. She turned her head just in time to see the door burst open, and a stallion stumbled out.

It was Polar. His mane was a shaggy mop and his eyes seemed to roll like they were spinning on their own axis. Some sort of sound—close to a gurgle—came out of his throat, and, as he stumbled forward, Chamomile smelled alcohol on it.

“What the… Polar?” Clip called. He left his spot by the window and ran over.

Suddenly, Polar pitched forward, forcing Chamomile to catch him—and instinctively she reached out not with her own magic, but her hooves. She was surprised to learn he was rather lightweight—and a distant part of her supposed this was natural to the physiology of pegasi—and even more so to hear him speak somewhat intelligibly.

“Why her? Why’d it have to be her?”

Chamomile pulled him off of her. He stumbled back but somehow managed to keep himself standing. He brought his head up and stared at her—his eyes were bloodshot. Drunk, and also crying?

“Oh, hey, Chamomile,” he slurred. “Not her. That’s good. Think she remembers me? I remember her…”

He hiccupped. “What brings you here?”

It took her a moment to recover. “We’re getting out of here.”

“What? Why?” He rocked back, wincing. “Gah, was it always this bright?”

Gaea, who had been pacing, now rushed over, stopping just short of them. “Goodness,” she gasped, “what happened to him?”

Clip turned up his nose. “He’s drunk,” he said bluntly.

“Drunk?!”

Clip kept going before Chamomile could interrupt. His voice dipped into stern disapproval, and he regarded Polar with the look one gives to seeing litter in the street. “Yes, drunk. Never mind that, though. We need to get to the station—the whistle—”

Just then, they heard a shrill sound coming from afar. It lasted a while, then repeated two more times, before the jazzy music returned to their senses. Clip’s ear flicked up, and he let out a grunt. “Well, there it is.”

“Yes, I just heard it.” Gaea looked concernedly at Polar. “Can he walk?”

He forced himself to stand, and took a few experimental steps. He grinned crookedly at them. But they were not entertained.

“We’d better get going,” Gaea said.

“Right,” said Chamomile. “Let’s.”

---

They arrived just in time to hear the conductor again blow his whistle. His country accent boomed across the Badlands in an almost machine-like cadence, alerting them to the train’s successful refueling, and informing them that they would depart shortly. It was time to go to work.

“Would it be so weird to say that, for a time, I forgot we had to work?” one pegasus said. They were going up the steps to the platform, accompanied by a flock of other pegasi.

“Nah,” said an earth pony nearby, chuckling. “Was a nice thing to forget!” A nice couple of chortles escaped out of the group, but, though it was pleasant to hear, Chamomile did not smile.

Gaea and Clip were behind her, supporting the disoriented Polar as best they could. His head lolled back and forth from a steady hold to an unsteady tilt, and he mumbled half-sentences out of the side of his mouth. Clip looked uncomfortable. Gaea seemed deeply disturbed. Chamomile felt similarly, and had even volunteered to take their place, but Gaea had been oddly insistent that she remain close to Polar.

That closeness resulted in a strange flutter in Chamomile’s chest, which she dismissed as momentary heart palpitations. She sought to busy herself by searching for a medic pony, but none were outside of the train or within view. The question of what to do about Polar pestered her—there was no way he’d be able to get onto the train without anypony noticing his state.

After a few minutes, Zipp appeared. She flew in from above and landed next to the conductor, greeting everypony with a bold smile that Chamomile wished she could even remotely mimic. They exchanged a few words. Then the conductor went back onto the train while Zipp addressed the crowd. “All right, everypony, file in! We want to get everyone on board in an orderly and efficient manner, you get me?”

Once they were organized, the doors to the cars opened up, and everypony began to enter. Preoccupied, nopony noticed Chamomile, Clip, and Gaea languishing behind, debating what to do.

“We can’t just sneak him onboard, can we?” Clip whispered heatedly.

“Past everypony? Doubt it,” Gaea said. “Not unless we could cover his mane, make it look like he isn’t inebriated.”

“Maybe if we had a hat,” Chamomile mused.

“A hat’s not going to cover up his drunk-walking.”

Gaea gave Clip a funny look. “Come on. No need to be so harsh on the guy.”

“No need? He’s drunk. Drunk, right as we’re about to leave!”

“Keep your voice down!” Chamomile hissed. “I thought the whole idea was to avoid making it obvious he’s—”

“Well, we can’t exactly do that while he’s in that state, can we?”

“Look,” Gaea said, turning to Polar while still speaking, “I’m sure if we ask him to just, toe the line, or whatever, he’ll be—”

She stopped short. That was because Polar was no longer next to them.

Before Chamomile could begin to search for him, they heard him bellow: “Hey! Prinschess!”

All of them turned to see Polar stumble onto the platform, nearly colliding with an onboarding group. His declaration caused Zipp to stumble back and look at him in total shock. There was a goofy smile on his face. “Hiya, Pr… Zchipp. Remember me?”

“Uh…”

“That idiot,” Clip muttered. He tried to approach the platform, but was cut off by another group of passengers who had yet to notice the commotion. “Oh, come on!”

“Let’s go around the other end,” Gaea suggested. They agreed and broke away from the larger crowd.

“You remember me, right?” Polar said, managing not to slur. He was a little quieter this time, more unsure of himself, and his ears wilted. Perhaps the liquor was affecting his face’s ability to compose itself, for now his frown threatened to pull down the whole of it with itself, in such a morbidly upsetting formation that it could have been comedic, had not his eyes and voice sparkled with alarming lucidity. No sober pony could look that sad—but only the saddest of drunks ever did, and it was always a sorrow sown and planted in some other time, in some other, happier place.

Zipp smiled uneasily. “Yeah, of course! You’re… that Polar guy, right? You’re in Chamomile’s group.”

If this was meant to placate him, it served the opposite effect—his ears flickered back, and his voice became irritated. “You really don’t remember me? At all?”

It seemed that he was getting angrier, and that the angrier he became, the more sober he was.

Zipp shook her head. “I’m, ah, sorry, guy, but if you’re saying we met before this expedition—”

“But we did!”

They were nearing the other side of the platform, but at the sudden exclamation, they stopped again. Polar had spread his wings, in a manner that Chamomile recognized as a pegasus’s way of warning somepony. Yet he seemed unaware of what he had done, and to whom.

By that point, the crowd had taken notice of the growing uproar. All movement onto the platform and train ceased, and it became harder for Chamomile and her group to push through. Ponies gathered to watch with morbid curiosity.

Zipp had remained calm throughout—impressively so. Chamomile wondered if this was what made her a princess. Zipp looked at the flared wings with a measure of distrust—she did not flare her own. She scrutinized Polar, who, realizing that a tense silence had descended, looked a little uncomfortable, and finally retracted his wings.

“You’re drunk,” she declared in amazement. The crowd gasped. Chamomile and her group pushed through and managed to finally reach the other set of stairs.

Polar wobbled. “Am not,” he slurred.

Chamomile ascended the stairs. She was aware she was breathing rather heavily, and at the sound of her hoofsteps, Zipp turned to regard her. “Zipp, hang on a second,” Chamomile tried to say.

But Polar interrupted her. With the tone of a petulant child, he nearly shouted, “I am not drunk!”

“You totally are,” Zipp returned. She sounded more disappointed than angry, which, for whatever reason, caused Polar to stiffen up. “What, did you stumble over to Brewster’s and down a couple of drinks? I know they’re pretty good, but you knew you’d be working today. Why’d you go and get yourself into this state?”

Polar must have been unaccustomed to being scolded, for his mouth flapped open wordlessly. Chamomile’s companions joined her on the platform, and Gaea was next to speak. “It’s true. We found him there.” She started forward, then hesitated. “He’s—he’s not too, drunk, though, right? He can still work?”

Zipp furrowed her brow. “He’s drunk. He’s not going to be able to do a whole lot.”

That brought Polar back to reality. “Hey, I’m right here, you know!”

“I know that.” Zipp turned sharply to him, her disapproval evident in every word. She stepped forward and tapped his chest with her hoof. It was barely a touch, yet he still slightly stumbled back. Her frown deepened, and then, almost to herself, she muttered, “Definitely more than a few drinks…”

Chamomile sensed some internal deliberation was occurring. She stepped forward. “Zipp, you’re not thinking of just leaving him here, are you?”

Zipp turned around. “What? O-of course not!” But her face betrayed her. “I was just—”

“What?” Gaea unexpectedly stepped in front of Chamomile, and her voice had become filled with incredulity. “N-no, you can’t—you can’t just do that!”

“I—” Zipp furiously shook her head, then looked behind her at the crowd. She saw their confusion and their antipathy. Putting on a smile, she said, “Er, never mind us, everypony. Just keep filing on board in a timely manner, okay?”

Some murmurs rose up—they were more curious as to what was happening than to the prospect of work. But eventually the crowd began to move again.

Stepping close to the group, she lowered her voice. “I hate to be that pony, but we’re causing a scene here.”

“You can’t seriously be thinking of leaving him behind,” Gaea protested.

“It doesn’t matter what I think. There are regulations I have to follow, and if that conductor comes back and sees that your friend is—well, you know—”

“That still doesn’t justify—”

“She’s right,” Chamomile said. They both turned to her, gazes so intense that they made her self-conscious. “Gaea, I mean,” she clarified. “Zipp, it… even if regulation permitted it, it wouldn’t be right to do that to him.” She sighed. “Look, I’m sure if we get him aboard the train, he’ll be fine.”

“Fine? I’d be surprised if he can even fly!”

“I can fly!”

They all looked at him and said collectively, “No, you can’t.”

Inebriation fueled an ego that could not be quashed by group dismissal. “Pfft. I totally can!” he slurred, crouching. “Just watch me!”

Four pairs of eyes widened, and four voices rose in alarm. “No, no, no, wait, wait—”

Polar sprang into the air, his wings keeping him aloft by several feet. It was actually impressive how he was able to achieve a certain degree of equilibrium, and for that singular moment, he looked completely fine.

Then he pitched sharply to one side, banked low, and flew headfirst into the station’s clock. A brutally hollow sound echoed throughout the Badlands, causing all movement to cease. He crumpled onto the platform, and startled gasps were heard.

Chamomile and Gaea were already moving, as though they’d decided unanimously that he was their charge. Behind them, Clip was cursing, and Zipp raced alongside him, calling out for somepony to get a doctor. The sound of the princess commanding them to action spurred a commotion, and the crowd began to summon one posthaste.

Chamomile was sure that the blow had been enough to render Polar unconscious before he’d hit the ground, but she checked him out anyway. She pulled open his eyelid—his pupils didn’t dilate. Gaea knelt next to her, ignoring how suddenly close they were, and placed an ear on his chest. “He’s still breathing,” she said, relieved, “but if I had to guess, he’s going to have one heck of a concussion when he wakes up.”

“If,” Clip said.

The glare Gaea sent him could have burned out the sun. “When.”

Chamomile couldn’t help but stare at her. Where did this protectiveness come from? Gaea had hardly spoken to Polar.

A doctor rushed out of the train cars, so quickly that Chamomile barely registered her appearance. “What happened?” she asked.

“He hit the clock,” Zipp said. She appeared to be in a state of shock herself. “Headfirst.”

The doctor pushed them aside and knelt to conduct her own spurious examinations. “He’s a pegasus, so his bones are less dense than the other races. We’re going to have to transport him into the med bay.”

Two more ponies arrived—nurses carrying a gurney. They quickly loaded Polar onto the flat bed, and Chamomile couldn’t help but watch with a sickening feeling as Polar seemed to dangle lifelessly on top. Gaea kept close to him, a hoof wrapped around his—an oddly intimate gesture between strangers.

“Miss,” the doctor said to her, “you’re going to have to let go, now.”

“I…” Gaea seemed to awaken, and she let go of Polar’s hoof. “Y-yes, of course. Sorry.”

The doctor nodded. Then she looked at Zipp. “By the way, the conductor wanted to let you know that we’re departing in five. You’d better get on board. All of you.”

Zipp was shocked to be addressed at all, let alone in such a calm tone of voice, given the situation. “R-right.”

But they did not leave immediately. When the doctor, the nurses, and the patient were gone, the four of them remained on the platform, facing each other. None of them knew quite what to say. Chamomile had a lingering feeling in her. It was like while she consciously knew the situation had been resolved, the rest of her had yet to catch up with that realization.

“He said he knew me,” Zipp suddenly said. She looked at them. “Any of you get what that meant?”

After a moment, Clip offered, “You’re both pegasi. And you’re the princess.”

“Yeah, but the way he said it…” She frowned, then shook her head. “Never mind. It’s probably nothing.”

“He was probably confused.”

“Maybe.” Clip and Zipp began to walk towards the train, though it was clear by their halting steps that their minds were still preoccupied.

Chamomile immediately thought back to what she’d heard in front of the tavern. That scattered series of sentences had made no sense then, and the ones she’d heard now were just the same, but what if… But no. Surely it was just the drunken ramblings of a stallion lost to his senses.

But how sad had he looked when Zipp expressed confusion…

Chamomile turned to go as well, but stopped. Something compelled her to look back at Gaea. She looked lost and confused and scared, like it was not a stranger who had gotten hurt in front of her, but somepony much closer. Her eyes flickered from the train to Chamomile, searching for something, and they were wet with helpless tears.

Chamomile recognized that look and those tears. For she had once shed them herself.

She stepped closer, intending to say, “He’ll be fine.” But the words sounded hollow in her head. She had no way of knowing if that was what Gaea even wanted to hear. So, instead, she opted to put out her hoof.

After a moment, Gaea took it. Together they began to trot towards the train.

Just as they boarded, however, another feeling came to Chamomile, and she turned back around. She had the oddest sense of being watched. She scanned the Badlands, trying to discern among the myriad of workers who looked her way.

At one point, she thought she saw a green pony standing in the middle of the road. She thought it was Astral, but he was too far away for her to be certain. And when a bit of dust and wind blew up and irritated her eye and she blinked, whatever or whoever that pony was, vanished into thin air.

Comments

[Thought Prism]

It's almost as if most of the ponies who signed up for this are running from their pasts...

[Phetiamwantip]

That was very good. I'm giving you six stars for doing a good job. ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐

[Axolotl222]

This chapter was three parts hilarious, sad, and worrying. Well done.