No Natural Predators
Vermilion was almost halfway home when he heard the crying foal.
The trees formed a colonnade, stretching miles ahead of him on either side until they vanished in the distance. Elms, stately and tall and still green in the last days of September, they ushered him along the long walk. Beyond them lay fields of grass, tall as his shoulders and waving in the gentle wind, an amber ocean that broke against the shadows of the forest in the distance.
He paused at the sound. It could have been the wind, or the distant shriek of some bird of prey calling out to its mate. It could have been his mind playing tricks on itself. It wouldn’t have been the first time.
The wind was a gentle caress against his coat, enough to brush away the hot touch of the sun. Above, endless, the blue sky was cloudless and void.
It was nothing. Keep on.
He moved down the path again, passing through the shade of the elms every fifty feet. Shadow, then sun. Shadow, then sun, on and on for miles. Around him, the acres of his parents’ old farm spread out without end.
A thousand steps later, the sound came again. Louder, now, and clear. The cries drifted with the wind from his left, where the waving grain undulated and hissed for him. He frowned, stopped at the edge of the path, and peered between the elms.
When he was a foal, he could see the town hall from his second floor bedroom, its peaked roof just visible above the marching elms. Later, as a colt, the distance had stretched, and it was a mile’s walk to the center of the town. Time passed, and fell to the earth like rain, and the earth soaked up the time and grew, and the distances expanded. The tree-lined path between town and home marched longer and longer with each year, until he forgot that once he could see the town hall from his second floor bedroom.
And still the path grew. The world spread out and out, like a blot of ink on ragged paper, pushed by the endless sky and the sun’s light touch. Now he could walk for days along the path before seeing its end.
There should not have been a foal here.
“Hello?” he called. “Who’s there?”
The crying paused as he spoke, its sound replaced by the tug of the wind on his ears. He was about to turn back to the path when a flash of movement caught his eye. Between the amber stalks, something small and green moved against the wind. He waited for it to come closer.
The grain parted, and a foal stepped out. She was a small thing, her flank still blank as a canvas, with a green coat and slate mane. Her eyes were red-rimmed with tears, and he could see the dark tracks they had traced down her muzzle. She looked up at him with her huge eyes.
She’s not a real pony.
He knelt down so that his face was at her level. “Hey there. Are you lost?”
Silent, she nodded. She turned a hair to the side, and raised a hoof to point back into the grain, at the distant forest beyond.
She’s lying.
“What’s your name?” He reached out to brush her mane. It was thick, like blades of grass or mossy fronds.
No answer. Her hoof pointed like an arrow into the fields.
“Would you like me to walk you home?”
She nodded, and together they moved into the grain. The tufted awns atop the stalks swayed and parted as she passed beneath them, the only sign as he followed her deeper and deeper off the path. Occasionally he would glimpse her green coat in the shadows ahead of him.
Hours passed, and eventually the grain ended at the foot of the forest. He turned back to the fields – the elm-lined path was a distant smudge upon the horizon.
The foal was waiting atop a fallen tree when he turned. Her eyes were wide and bright, even in the shadows of the forest. He stepped closer to her, and looked into the darkness beyond. Oaks and ashes extended without end.
“Peridot.”
He flicked an ear toward her. “I’m sorry?”
“Peridot. It’s my name.”
He nodded. “Do you live in here, Peridot?”
She nodded and stepped off the fallen trunk. Her hooves crunched the layers of leaves that carpeted the forest floor, and she began to walk further into its shadows. Her green coat and slate mane blended easily with the underbrush.
He bounded easily over the log and followed her. Within minutes the sunny expanse of the fields had vanished behind them.
“What’s your name?” she asked sometime later. They had just crossed a cold stream, and his fetlocks were soaked with muddy water. She perched upon his back until his hooves found dry ground, and then she bounded off to take the lead again.
“Vermilion.”
She glanced over her shoulder at him. “Like your coat?”
“Yeah.”
The trees grew higher as they walked. Their canopies formed a high, sunless vault, a cathedral of leaves and branches. No wind flowed around them.
“Are we close to your home, yet?”
“Yes, almost.” She gazed around the forest. “Almost.”
He gazed around as well. The tall trees extended in all directions without end.
There is no home. There is no foal.
“Do you love anypony?” She had turned toward him while his eyes were away and sat on her haunches, looking up at him.
“I do," he said. "Her name is Lapis.”
“Is her coat blue?”
“As blue as her name.”
“Does she love you?”
“Yes.” A pause. “Yes.”
The thing that was not a foal nodded. “Love is wonderful, is it not?”
It was. “I told her I would be home. She said she would wait.”
No answer. For a moment, the thing that was not a foal almost looked sad.
“What are you?” he asked.
“A monster.”
Ah. He looked back at the empty forest. “I’m sorry.”
“I know. As am I.”
Miles away, the endless fields of grain stretched ever onward.
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The end was maybe just a little anticlimactic, but I love the slowly building sense of foreboding. Thanks.
(Third short? Did I miss one, or is number two coming later?)
2360677
One Thousand Flowers was the second.
2360749 Ahh, gotcha. That puts it in a slightly different perspective...
I think it's interesting that you're doing something with continuity in these 30 minute challenges. Got a big story planned for them anyways, or did it just hit you?
Huh. Cinnabar and Mr. Nice Pegasus whose name I either forget or failed to read seem to be pretty similar. Both affable, kind, and looking for the loves that they lost. I wonder if they'll ever meet? Hmm.
2360962
We never learned Mr. Nice Pegasus's name (it's Cumulus).
That's an interesting take on the concept of an expanding universe! Overall, the world these hint at reminds me slightly of Stephen King's Dark Tower books, with their world that has "moved on", with distances and spatial relations starting to stretch and wander.
So is this what waylaid Vermillion for so long while the mare he left behind became a zombie? Is there a cohesive story and setting binding these three shorts together, or just a similar mood?
2361429
There was a lot that kept Vermillion from returning to Lapis like he promised. Peridot was one of those things.
Such a polite monster.
Reading this and the Luna and Vermillion one back to back was enough to tip this from thumbs up to favorites as they're both such excellent mood pieces.
Well, that begins one side of the explanation.
Now we just need a hint as to how Lapis became a zombie.
The third short in the Vermilion/Cinnabar arc.
I'm going to say that vermillion is either dead or immortal
A scorpion named Peridot.
Interesting.
I don't get it ;_;
I spot a steven universe fan
2387305 Okay, now this arc is starting to make sense.