I'll Find You
Braeburn, tired and incoherent, stumbled out of the barn, squinting in the bright sunlight, which beat strongly down on him, assaulting his vision when it had yet to adjust. His body, still needing to warm up and quite unwilling to cooperate with him, felt as if it were scalded as he stepped out of the cool, familiar shade and into the full-on sunlight. He rubbed his head, causing his disheveled mane to be made even more unruly. Then he sat down on the sandy wooden floorboards, still in full view of the blindingly bright yellow-white ball of the sun, and tried to think.
It had been horrible last night. The strange, keening wails that had continued throughout the whole night had awakened some long-hidden fear within him, keeping him up all night until exhaustion finally took hold of him. What made him really afraid were two important details pertaining to the noise. First of all, he had never, in all his years living in this town, heard anything like it, not even when he had camped with the buffalo tribes of the land to try and learn about their culture. Second of all, the very nature of the noise had made it all the more terrifying. He remembered it in great detail, a high, keening wail in the night that spoke measures of loss, agony, rage that questioned the cruelty of fate. Or at least, that was what it had sounded like. The noise had cut right to his heart, and served to chill him deeply. Braeburn, who, as a rule of being the town’s friendly face to outsiders, didn’t carry a weapon to defend himself, had huddled in the barn behind a few large baskets of apples, arranged around a corner in a defensive quarter circle.
He shook his head and focused instead on the current surroundings. He didn’t want to think about it. Still squinting, he realized that the experience of being blinded by sunlight was almost alien to him. Come to think of it, he was usually up even before the sun was. Now that he thought about it, it was strange that the orchard workers had found him and woken him up. Most of the time, he would have headed into the town just as they headed in. How very strange…Wait…Oh darn. I’m late.
Braeburn couldn't believe it. He had never been late for work before, whether it was in the orchard or as the town's tour guide. It just wasn't responsible of him. There were other ponies whose valuable time depended on his puntuality, after all. He just couldn't believe himself. At that moment he nearly ran straight into somepony carrying a large open crate of metal blades, on the way to the new apple processing plant due to open in the next three months or so. He nearly tripped and sent his face straight into the assortment of cutters, differing in size, shape, length or otherwise in design, but all still equally sharp.
That brought him to an abrupt stop. His heart rate shot up had and peaked before he regained control of his actions, carefully shifting his centre of gravity to prevent from falling. He had to stop rushing, to calm down and think, or he would get somepony hurt, most likely both himself and another unfortunate, innocent party. Gosh, sleep deprivation's almost as bad as heavy drinking, only it's probably less harmful...heavy drinking... He slowed down to a brisk trot, and looked around the town. It came as a random observation that he couldn't find Ms Scratch anywhere in the thin crowd. Then he shook his head and wondered what had overtaken him. You barely know her. In fact, she probably hates you now.
Speaking of strange and disturbing... he thought about the strange noises last night, and shivered involuntarily in the broad, beaming afternoon sun. He had to find out about what that was, to satisfy his own horrifying curiosity, and, even though he wouldn't want to be caught dead over-worrying, he was honestly a little scared at the prospect of what could have made such a noise. And I have to find another place to spend the night. He sure as pony wasn't about to spend another night listening to creepy noises and putting himself at the mercy of whatever it was out there. Perhaps he could ask Jug to let him pull an all-nighter in the bar? He would see. Right now, all that mattered was getting to—he stopped his rushed pace abruptly as he approached what was an almost empty train station.
Work? Braeburn was a little stumped, to say the least. There was nopony, and absolutely nopony at the station, nor any tourists wondering around the vicinity draggin baggage of any kind. It was all a little strange, since they would more or less mill around waiting for someone to tell them what to do (they were always informed that there was a guide who would help them).
True enough, as Braeburn reached the station, a load of poorly-dressed ponies lugging heavy baggage off the locomotive currently parked there, bringing with them a befuddled and clueless air. Braeburn decided that he might as well introduce himself. 'Good morning, folks.' The crowd turned to face him from their collective perch on the station platform, as he stood on dusty ground level in the street. “I'm the local guide for this town. If you would approach me I could direct you to your places of lodging, after which if you want you can meet me back here in about fifteen minutes, so I can give you a tour of the town.” A few members of the crowd gave him quizzical expressions and ignored him entirely, going on their way past him. He overlooked this, knowing some tourists disliked and looked down his easygoing and somewhat rustic manner of self-presentation. It still nagged at his mind how many of them there seemed to be today, though.
The rest of them responded the same way initially, with questioning stares and raised eyebrows, before shrugging their shoulders with equal non-chalance and proceeding to ask him for help. He was about done pointing the group in the right direction, when the sheriff approached him from the edge of his field of vision, standing to a corner until the last of the tourists were on their way. Braeburn directed his attention to Silverstar. “Mornin' sheriff. Sorry about the late start.”
“Never mind about that. I've got something to show you.”
“What's that, sir?”
The sheriff shook his head and beckoned with a hoof, heading to the station. Braeburn, though quite alienated and somewhat irked, nonetheless proceeded to trotted submissively behind the sheriff out of respect. They were heading towards the station, with Braeburn feeling ever more curious by the second. When they were both standing on the platform, the sheriff turned to face him, his eyes possessing a tint that Braeburn didn't see often. A slight glimmer of mischief and good humour. 'Now,' the sheriff started, 'I didn't want to point this out in front of the tourists, but if you would direct your attention to the notice board...' Braeburn did as he was told, and started to laugh. There, on the board, was a notice, printed in large font, which stated that the town guide would not be running his usual tour for today.
The sheriff smiled visibly and shared the brief moment of mirth with him. 'You', he placed a hoof on Braeburn's shoulder, 'are the first right-minded stallion I've met who comes to work on his day off.'
'Thank you for going out of your way to inform me sir.' He chuckled and paused, staring at the notice before adding, 'I had better finish with this batch first, though. Don't wanna leave’em hangin' now, do I?'
It was a short day of work, completed with the better part of an hour. It was barely late morning by the time the group was shooed off into the town to explore on their own. Braeburn sighed in relief as he watched the last tourist’s back-facing silhouette disappear into the distance. He stood in the uncomfortably warm sunlight for a moment, enjoying the moment of relief. As he wiped the sweat from his brow, he noticed abruptly that he didn’t know what to do now. He didn’t have anything to do now, come to think of it. He was genuinely surprised when he noticed that he had no other interest, no other hobbies or tasks to complete, goals to accomplish, other than his everyday work. It was a profoundly sobering realization, which he shoved into the corner of his mind for a moment, thinking to focus on what had to be done now. He would think about what he could do for leisure when he had time.
The heat of the sun was making him feel abnormally drowsy. He rubbed a hoof against his temple and looked around for some shade. Stifling a yawn, the events of yesterday night were brought to mind. He remembered the shrieks, frightening and heart-rending, echoing through the deserted orchard, and he shivered. First of all was to find out what that sound was, and, for now, to find somewhere else to sleep.
His first stop was the apple orchard, where he was greeted warmly by a number of the workers, friends and relatives whom he was familiar with. He had started inquiring about those who lived closest to the orchard first, asking if they had heard the noise. They were mostly laborers staying in the small hostile at the edge of town. Most said they hadn’t. Some said that they might have, barely, soft enough that a few thought it was just their imagination. Even fewer claimed that they had definitely heard it, and mostly in the dead of night, when it was quiet enough for sound to travel to their ears, then conditioned to the silence. Then he continued to ask if they had seen anything out of the ordinary. Not really, they had told him. Nothing…except, a few strands of something deep blue, barely visible against a patch of crushed grass at the edge of the orchard. Braeburn left afterwards, with nothing more than a frown and a growing sense of unease and puzzlement, and almost nothing to add to his dismal list of clues. He had no choice but to get going, having other errands to run.
It was about two hours’ walk to get to where the buffalo had set up their camp, based on the list of locations and timings that Little Strongheart had provided Braeburn with. And so he spent an hour plodding over dusty red mesas, through annoyingly inconstant sandy hills, around clusters of metre-and-a-half cacti. He would stop occasionally to take a swig of water from his canteen before adjusting his hat and continuing. By the time he had gotten there, the sun had just crossed the apex of its gentle arc across the arc. As soon as he was within sight of the camp, a few of the large, bulky buffalo, standing out from the pale yellow sands in their dark umber coats, plodded from the camp towards him. He stood perfectly still and stared straight at them, even making eye contact several times. But he didn’t approach. No, that would be taken as an indication of disrespect, or, in worse times, as hostility.
In the months that followed the small conflict between the natives and the settlers, he had been one of the first few ponies who took the first steps towards any kind of cultural exchange, learning first their traditions before teaching some of his own, always giving them the proper respect as equals. At the front of the group was an ochre buffalo, three times smaller than the others, lithe and almost skinny in build and with a spring it her step. There was no mistaking though, from the way Strongheart carried herself, that she was the leader.
A small smile broke through her otherwise morose visage. When they were close enough, her ruse finally broke, and she punched Braeburn in the arm. He rubbed his shoulder gingerly and returned the gesture, although more gently. Her smirk grew as she addressed their visitor. “How many times have I told you before, Mr. Braeburn, that you hardly need to stand on ceremony with us?” She turned and started trotting back to the camp, indicating with a jerk of her head that Braeburn should follow. “Last time anypony tried not standing at ceremony, they got the cold shoulder and dirty looks from the whole clan,” Braeburn reminded her. “Wouldn’t want that, would we?”
“Yes, but obviously whoever it was who last tried that, it wasn’t you.” Braeburn gave a snort of amusement. “So your father still thinks that we’ve got something going for us, doesn’t he?” he asked.
Strongheart’s cheeks reddened considerably. “Yeah, but I can’t bear to tell him otherwise. It’s quite cute though, ‘cause he asks all sorts of things after you visit.” Braeburn frowned in mock disdain, but didn’t face his friend. They maintained further silence until they were well into the small temporary camp. “So,” she started again, turning to face him. She ran a hoof to sweep a few of her messy locks above her bandanna. “What brings you to our camp this time?” He, in turn, reached into his saddle bag, poking around with his nose while he held it open with a hoof. He withdrew two weathered pieces of parchment a moment later, and dropped them from his mouth into Strongheart’s waiting hoof. “Two trade request, one for more sapphires and the other for cactus gum.” Strongheart accepted the documents and glanced over them with a small frown. Then she passed the forms to a clan member flanking her right, dismissing him with a curt nod. Braeburn had never gotten used to the sight of an eight-hundred kilogram bison scurrying off at her whims. “We should be ready to conduct an exchange in about two weeks from now,” she confirmed, turning back to Braeburn. “Now, is there anything else you might need?”
“Oh no,” Braeburn replied courteously, taking a few steps back. “I just—…“ Out of sheer coincidence, the strange noises in the night drifted into his mind, the same way he had heard it the night before. He shuddered and frowned. “Actually, there’s something I need to ask you about.” Strongheart nodded gravely, sensing the change in his mannerisms. “I have a feeling you’ll want to take a seat before doing this.” He shook his head and started to explain the occurrence from the previous evening. “Would you be able to identify this as anything? Maybe some sort of desert creature, or something from your folklore?” Strongheart’s brows rose slightly at the word ‘folklore’, but after several ponderous seconds, she shook her head. “Being the chief’s daughter, I’m required to know everything there is to know about our culture and our way of life, but I’ve never ever heard or even heard of anything by that description. Sorry Braeburn.” He nodded graciously, though rather grimly, in reply.
He set off back to town, arrived in the late afternoon, and finished his favours and chores by early evening. After a quick shower, he settled himself down in the cantina, intentionally plodding up to a bar stool directly in front of Jug and seating himself down heavily. The bartender took the hint. “What seems to be the problem? By the way, sorry you had to get involved in that little affair yesterday…” He waved it off with a hoof. “Listen, um, Jug, can I call a favour?” The reply came in the form of a shrug. Shoot. “I kinda need a place to stay tonight….Something really strange went on and there’s no way I’m gonna be spending one more night on that damn orchard. Not until this problem is resolved somehow.” A few extremely unlikely thoughts of townsfolk with pitchforks and torches filed in and out of his mind, largely ignored due to sheer unlikelihood. Bartender Jug peered at him over the tiny lenses of his glasses, as if searching for something in him that would decide his decision. The resolve to hold up such a keen and intense expression collapsed after a moment, and he sighed. “I don’t see why not, sport—“ he said resignedly, Braeburn punched the air and let out a silent cheer of elation. “—provided you do me one more favour.” It didn’t dampen his mood much, and he agreed almost instantly. Nothing could be worse than spending another night huddling behind bales of hay and barrels of apples, listening to eerie, heart-wrenching wailing and wondering whether he should go to sleep in case he was just hearing things. Jug watched the spectacle of triumph and, as expected, shrugged yet again. He pointed a hoof towards one of the shadowy corner booths, the seats, floor and table littered with glass bottles of a few different types…and a large lump of…something. Or somepony? He turned to Jug with a puzzled frown.
“She’s been here since yesterday, and I wouldn’t complain about the extra service, but I’m a decent stallion running a respectable business, and I’m worried about the poor lass. Just go check on her can you?” He slid off the stool and trotted over. “And try not to start a fight this time!” The last statement confirmed enough of his suspicions. When he reached the booths, Miss Scratch was draped over the table, a glass bottle in her hoof just like yesterday.
“Useless,” she muttered softly, and sniffed once, giving a slight shake of her head. “Useless, useless, useless…” the shaking got more violent, feverish, and she thumped a hoof on the table surface. “What’s useless?” he asked in as gentle-sounding a voice as he could muster. She drew back from the sound of his voice at first, and Braeburn froze halfway through taking a seat, unsure of what reaction she might offer. She set her head back down, and her glamorous thick-framed glasses bounced on her nose as her chin met the table with a thud.
For the fleeting moment the glasses slipped off her nose, and Braeburn caught a glimpse of startlingly bright scarlet irises. They would have shone like wine in a crystal glass, he could tell, but the dimly lit cantina muted them to a bloody vermillion. The streaks of bloodshot colouring her eyes made her irises look outsize for a moment before Braeburn noticed why. They hadn’t been used for much more than crying and tottering, fumbling trips to the restroom for quite a while, and now the tear glands were exhausted. Braeburn understood all of this in the few seconds it took before Vinyl dis-coordinately shoved the spectacles back up to cover her visage. And those glamorous ruby red irises, sad as they might be, were once again hidden behind an impersonal purple tint. Braeburn wordlessly put away the thoughts for later, the soft music came back to his notice, and time picked up its sluggish pace.
She just stared at him through the polarized eyewear, eyebrows outward-slanting and shoulders sagging. Then she to face the opposite side of the empty booth and set her head back down. “Never….never you mind, Mr. Braeburn.” She sniffed again. “I’ve caused you more than enough trouble already.” She took hold of one of the empty bottles by the neck, swirled it around, and found it was empty. Braeburn watched her as she deposited it dispassionately on the floor under the table and repeated the process several times as the green-tinted glass containers clacked against each other, sounding dangerously close to breaking point. He finally took hold of a half-full Heineighken and tried to make it as obvious as possible that he was intending to hand it to her. He didn’t trust her foggy perceptions enough to rule out being attacked again. Her impersonal and fearfully unreadable gaze returned to him for a while before she nodded jerkily and accepted the bottle. He handed it over a little too gratefully and she nearly lost her grip. A tension he didn’t know was there ebbed slowly away.
The silence continued as she took a long pull and wiped away the remainder on the back of her hoof. “Shoo. Don’t you have other things to do?” she slurred at him, the beginnings of a suspicious glare knotting her eyebrows. When he thought about it, Braeburn realized yet again that he was in fact unoccupied. Two things occurred to him immediately after. The first was that he always knew he was a busy pony, but he never suspected that the impression he gave off was that strong. The second was that he had no cause for elation regarding his newfound freedom, and it swiftly gave way yet again to a vague emptiness as he recalled that nothing would occupy his time.
Vinyl lurched over the table and lost her grip on the bottle, which tipped over and spilled its remaining last few milliliters over the table. She sighed and put her head in her hooves as the bottle tumbled over the edge, bounced once on the padded booth seat and clinked onto the floor. Vinyl seemed to twitch forward once, then again, and again…. At first Braeburn thought that she would throw up and got ready to haul her to a nearby sink before he heard an almost inaudible sob issue from the mare. She wasn’t retching, she was crying. And it left Braeburn at a loss for what to do. He had never needed to go any further than professional courtesy or even casual friendship ever since he came to Appleoosa with the rest of the settlers….
Her crying grew in pitch and volume, becoming intense enough that it drove other thoughts into hidden recesses of his mind. There was something eerie about the very manner in which she began to wail which made him feel increasingly uneasy and panicked. Barely half a minute was all the indecision and apathy that he could manifest, and, trapped between guilt and pity, inexplicable fear and the general frustration that today’s turn of events had inspired, he impulsively draped a furtive hoof around Vinyl’s shoulders. She started to sob even harder, and he felt his cheeks redden as he turned to scan the rest of the cantina. It was mercifully empty. “There, there….just let it all out…”he breathed placatively. ‘Not that she needs any prompting….’ He realized. She shivered once and he realized dully that he had subconsciously pulled her closer to himself. ‘I wonder what happened to her.’
Looking over his shoulder, he caught Jug’s eyes and tried to put the same mixture of heartache and bewilderment into that quick stare. Apparently only the latter got through, because the bartender picked up a phone receiver and indicated a faded old sepia picture of Sheriff Silverstar, which in front of a barrel from Sweet Apple Acres. Braeburn cringed and shook his head. Definitely not. Jug shrugged and acted as if to shoo him away. It’s your call.
She calmed down after a few minutes’ worth of eternity, where Braeburn tried his best to moderate between patronizing her and easing out all the tears that she had been bottling up. “Hey, you feeling better?” he asked when her breathing calmed down from moaning exhalations and shuddering gasps. She nodded sleepily and sniffed. “Thanks.” Braeburn afforded a grimace of a smile that she couldn’t see. “Nopony deserves to cry alone.” He told her, meaning every word. Still, it troubled him as to what had brought a successful, famous pony like herself down to her current pitiful state. How hard would it be for someone in her position to be happy anyway? Her life was one that many a pony, fans or otherwise, would no doubt covet. What did it take to be happy. ‘Like me?’ his mind replied sardonically. He was on the verge of agreeing and justifying the statement until he truly considered the statement. Was he really happy, or was he more similar to Vinyl Scratch than he had granted himself a right to notice? His closest kin was a few days’ railroad journey away, and while he was friends with basically everypony, that also meant that there was nopony he was especially close to. With the exception of Strongheart, but he had the feeling that things weren’t going as smoothly as they could be either. It was in that moment of disillusionment that he realized how alone he really was, how he had hidden behind the façade of work and simple fulfillment.
Something in his voice changed abruptly. “Vinyl,” he rasped, the collection of thoughts having robbed him of speech momentarily, “Can you tell me what’s been bothering you so much? I’d like to know.” The simple request spoke measures, even to Vinyl in her current state, and her head shot up as best it could while still swaying around under the effects of an afternoon’s worth of alcohol. Her glasses were half-flung off her eyes and into the centre of the table in the process, and she scrabbled for it with a hoof. Braeburn was quicker, and clamped his own limb around hers before she could retrieve her eyewear. He felt her tense up and wondered for a moment whether he was going to get it in the forehead this time round, but he tried to catch her gaze anyway. “Leave those off,” not knowing what was really going on at this point anymore. “Please…” It was apparent that some embers of a fire still blazed in her eyes in the moments that followed, but they quickly faded with some instant recollection that could only lead to the defeat in her heart and the weariness in her eyes.
“Okay,” she conceded breathlessly.
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I thought it was alright. Sure, could use some smoothing out....but I'm all for 'daww' moments.