The Stone

by Martian

Chapter 1 - Chance Meeting

Morning saw fresh golden light streaming through the window set high into the side of the wagon, which caused to wake a slightly less unhappy but slightly more disheveled Trixie, who eventually pushed open the door and stepped down the little set of stairs.

The morning light also saw that a second wagon had moved into the little clearing, though it was more like a cart- half of it stacked with wicker pots and the other half with carefully arranged sapling trees. It must have been owned by the rather large and heavyset red stallion who was standing beside the blazing cookfire, minding a black pot set on a metal tripod above it. Trixie’s own pot was sitting on the ground beside the rings of stones, obviously carelessly discarded by the oaf when he stole her campfire.

“And just what do you think you are doing?!” she snapped, in no mood for using such complex tools as logic or common sense.

The stallion gave her a slow look, then looked carefully around the clearing, then down to the pot he had been stirring. He let the wooden spoon go and regarded the mare again. He considered his options, though judging by the time it took him, he was weighing them with consideration to the rest of the universe as a whole. One could practically see the gears slowly turning, driven by some vast and ponderous mechanism. The answer was surprisingly succinct for the amount of time it took to arrive.

“Makin’ breakfast.” He went back to stirring.

Incensed, Trixie stomped a hoof, “Over my fire!”

The spoon was released. Again the slow searching examination of the clearing and all the things within it, including quite possibly every leaf on the elm tree behind Trixie’s wagon.

“Fire was out.”

“A likely story! I suppose you threw away my sup- my breakfast while you were at it, didn’t you?!”

The stallion didn’t get angry, didn’t seem much perturbed in any fashion. He simply turned a bit and stretched out one soup-plate-sized hoof to knock Trixie’s pot onto its side. The unicorn sucked in a breath of air, ready to give this laconic hick the kind of verbal thrashing that only The Great and Powerful Trixie could, when she noticed that what had once been her pot was now a kind of really short, blackened pipe.

“Bottom burnt through,” he said, stating the obvious.

The loss of her cooking pot was an annoyance she could have certainly gone without, and the unexpected company was not at all cooling off what had already been a fairly unhappy pony to begin with. Worse than all of that, though, was the way the big red pony just went back to minding his food, like Trixie didn’t matter whatsoever.

This was the wrong thing to do.

A bolt of pale pink magic smacked into his pot, knocking it clean off its chain to roll across the ground. The sudden burst of magical potency actually shocked Trixie, causing her to fall back onto her haunches. The big pony, who was right beside the pot, just sort of turned his head to watch the old black iron cauldron gently spin to a stop on its side, the spoon still held in his mouth. A dollop of oatmeal fell from the end of it, landing in the fire with a faint hiss. The rest of his breakfast was now spattered across the ground.

Neither moved for a moment. A smell of cinnamon and apples curled through the air between them.

Without a word of complaint, the stallion stretched out a hoof and lifted the pot, setting the handle back on the chain that hung from the iron tripod over the fire. Trixie watched him, her breath held tight in her throat as the fellow stood and ambled slowly to his cart to draw out a little bag and a jug from a bundle that was beneath it. Trixie recognized the habit from the days before she had the roofed travelling wagon; a groundsheet and a few blankets were under the cart. He had slept there with it as his roof.

Not paying her any mind, he carefully poured out a measure of water from the jug, corked it, then sat down heavily just where he had before to watch the pot, apparently waiting for it to come to a boil again.

Trixie let out her breath, then nearly jumped out of her skin when he turned his great head to peer at her.

“I have enough for two.”

Trixie grew suspicious. “What? Why?”

Macintosh shrugged one heavy shoulder. “Your pot’s busted.”

“And you think that’s a good enough reason for you to just sashay into my campsite and take over my fire?!” Trixie advanced on him, fixing on Macintosh the kind of glare that would have reduced any other pony to a quivering heap. “Do you have any idea the pony you have insulted?! I am the Great and Powerful-”

“Trixie. Yup.” He eyed the water in the cauldron, then ferreted about a little in the bag at his side. These were not the actions of an intimidated pony, and Trixie was well aware that her reputation had spread to a fair sized chunk of Equestria, and not in a good way. Her outburst was stymied, but instead of calming down, she grew all the more suspicious. Why would a pony who knew her name, and who had just had his breakfast poured into the dirt, still offer to make her some food? There was no reason at all for him to do anything of the sort, and Trixie herself would have probably packed up and left in a very loud huff had she received the kind of treatment she had just given.

“Why?” she asked again, slowly.

Oats were poured into the water just as it was starting to boil. The spoon was taken up to give the mixture a swirl. The slow, unhurried movements might have been relaxing to him, but every second he took built up the kind of pressure in Trixie that usually caused alarms and klaxons to go off in industrial centers.

“Your pot’s busted.”

Trixie was ready to go off like a bomb, but before she could Big Macintosh shrugged his shoulder and continued, “Neighbourly thing to do.”

The explosion was stymied, but the sputtering outrage was no less fierce. “The Great and Powerful Trixie doesn’t need your charity! I have my own breakfast, thank you very much!” Stale biscuits and staler jam were a breakfast... of a sort. With a pot of tea it was actually very nearly enjoyable, but to get some tea going she’d have to bring her kettle out to the fire and just now she had no inclination to let this presumptuous oaf feel like she owed him something.

Without waiting for a reply, she whirled and stormed her way back into her wagon, taking care to slam the door good and hard to get the point across that she really did not need any help, and certainly not the help of some slow-witted hick, no matter that his apple cinnamon oatmeal smelled like something out of a very lovely dream, no doubt made all the better with a generous dash of rich brown sugar and just a splash of fresh cream...

Grumbling to herself,Trixie pushed open the lid of the box that held her supplies and peered at the dwindling stockpile, selecting the last plain brown box of wrapped biscuits and the remains of a jar of grape jelly that had probably been lurking in the bottom of the box since before Nightmare Moon made her first appearance. It wasn’t so much jelly as it was some kind of strange, grape-scented amethyst crystal.

It broke her last spoon.

Big Macintosh glanced up curiously when he heard a shout from the wagon, and caught a glimpse of something vaguely jar-shaped speeding off towards the horizon at the kind of velocity usually reserved for the space shuttle.

---

The biscuits were dry, and sorely lacking for tea, but at least they served to fill the hole in her stomach for a little while. It didn’t do much to dampen her mood, but Trixie wasn’t going to venture outside and risk seeing that smug stallion’s face.

Instead, she busied herself about inside the wagon’s close confines as best she could, organizing her costume rack in between bites of powdery biscuit, then sitting down in front of her storage crate with a small parcel of tools and a glitchy stage prop she had been meaning to fix. In working order, the springs should be causing it to spin wildly back and forth with sparklers attached to its flywheel for a dazzling, hypnotic display, but all it managed in her last performance was to sort of sizzle a moment before falling off and singeing her cloak.

It only took a moment to find the problem; two of the three springs had given up the ghost and snapped into pieces. Trixie had no spares, and wasn’t even sure she could find a place to buy fresh ones. She sighed, and was about to chuck it into the old crate beneath her bunk that held the dozen or so other ever-broken props when she heard heavy hoofsteps approaching her door.

She sat still, turning her head to stare at the close door to her wagon, bracing herself to lash out with the very worst verbal weaponry she had in store should that backwater hillbilly so much as dare to knock. It never came, though. Instead, there was a momentary pause then the soft thump of something being set down on the step before the hoofsteps retreated.

“How kind of you, making sure I remember by ruined kitchenware,” she muttered, angrily finishing off the last of the horrid biscuit and not caring about the crumbs that fell to the floor. It’d mean she’d have to sweep up before she left to avoid attracting mice, but really if any mouse was foolish enough to try and get into her wagon these days, it would have been a boon- Trixie could always use more stage animals to win the hearts of younger ponies...

She found herself growing hungry again rather swiftly, and curse her brain, she couldn’t help but be reminded of the sweet and spicy scent of the oatmeal, couldn’t help but imagine the tanginess of the apple slices that were probably in it, and how it would be sweetened with more than a little brown sugar, and perhaps even just a touch of delicious maple syrup...

Trixie was relieved then to hear the sound of wheels on gravel, amd of hooves leading them, wheeling about outside then receding off in some direction or another. The oaf had vacated- now maybe she could have a decent breakfast. She was sure she still had some Dajeerling in the tin, and a bit of sugar besides.

The kettle was filled with fresh water from her store, a teapot prepped with what was left of the dried leaves, and an old chipped cup set atop the crate amidst the pile of tools and broken springs. The door was opened, and Trixie very nearly planted her hoof into the small cast iron cauldron the stallion had been cooking with. A spoon was stuck in it, and the thing still half-full of gently steaming oatmeal, filling Trixie’s world with the delicious, homely scent of cinnamon apples.

The little metal tripod the pot had hung from was leaning against her wagon. At its feet, the remains of her own pot, somehow sheepish, there on the gravel. Always pragmatic, Trixie’s first moment of shock there on her stoop with one hoof raised was spent noticing that with a cut, a bit of shaping and some soldering, she could turn that ruined pot into a serviceable and re-usable mortar tube for a large firework.

The second moment was used to realise that the stallion had obviously left his cauldron for her, with no intention of having it back.

The third moment belonged to Trixie’s temper, which heated, glowed, flared, then detonated spectacularly, along with the water in her kettle.

---

“Hey!”

She ran out from the clearing to the road, the cauldron and tripod in tow, gripped in a pink nimbus. Trixie’s head swiveled sharply for side to side, her pale mane flying as she searched for the source of her vexation. There, of a goodly distance down the road, just dropping beneath the crest of a rise, the rear of a wagon, a few small bundles of green leaves showing just above its rear gate.

“Hey!” she shouted again, starting to trot down the road, hoping to catch the oaf’s attention. The wagon just rolled along its merry way, disappearing out of sight. Trixie’s teeth ground together as she whirled around and stomped rapidly to her wagon. The pot and tripod were flung unceremoniously through the open door, followed shortly by her own ruined one.

It should be noted that no mess was produced from the hastily tossed pot; no oatmeal was spattered across her floor or bunk, as there was none left inside of it to do so. Proud as Trixie might be, it has been Apple Family porridge, and the family knew how to make their food irresistible; even the most basic travelling supplies they kept were above and beyond anything bits could buy in a shop, and were certainly lightyears beyond Doctor Perrywinkle’s Dry Traveler’s Wafers, (guaranteed to be just as edible ten years down the roads as the day they had been when freshly baked, which tells you pretty much everything you need to know.)

The gift of a decent breakfast wouldn’t stop her from verbally thrashing that hick when she caught up to him, but a full belly would probably make her less inclined to swatting him about the ear with a switch, or whatever it was those backwater ponies used.

Her wagon rattled as she got onto the road, moving slow at first as she built up momentum, then advancing to a steady trot that she could keep up for hours. As much as Trixie would have loved a soft life, she had lived on the road long enough to have a surprising reserve of stamina and strength- her muscles could have been carved from wood.

And given how massive that idiot is, I’ll likely catch up to him within the hour. Then he’ll see just how big of a mistake he made.

---

It didn’t take an hour. Matter of fact, by the second hour, Trixie had only just caught sight of Macintosh and his cart at the far end of a long straight. It baffled her as to just how fast and steady a clip the muscle-bound behemoth was keeping up: most thick-necked oafs Trixie had seen on the road got winded within minutes of just trying to keep up with her, but this fellow moved along like he was powered by steam.

By the third hour, Trixie was sweating and right at the edge of starting to breathe hard, but had managed to close the distance between herself and the source of her vexation.

“Hey you!” she shouted, giving her voice a magical spin to make sure it reached him. She had superb vision of course, and so noticed how his ear twitched before his turned his big, stupid head to glance over his shoulder. Seeing her, he slowed down to a gentle walk rather than simply stop,which would let him avoid the stiffness that would come from cramping muscles. Perhaps he wasn’t nearly as dumb as he looked, but that was a very deep pit for him to try and climb out of, in Trixie’s opinion.

She had caught up to him and pulled alongside after a few more moments, matching his slow stride and grateful for the chance to catch her breath, though not that she’d show it to him.

“You,” she said, practically spitting the word.

“Yup. Me,” he answered, nodding cheerfully. He was chewing on a grass stalk. Not a bead of sweat showed on his forehead. Two sets of hooves thumped along the gravel road, underlined with the rattle and squeak of wheels and the occasional clatter of pots in the back of Mac’s cart.

“You can take your things back, thank you very much,” she said, not deigning to even look at Macintosh. She marched along at his side, nose lifted into the air.

He thought about it for a few moment, his grass stalk traversing his mouth a few times as he chewed. “Nope.”

Trixie scoffed, “Like you have a choice in the matter! You can have them back right this very instant, and be grateful that the Great and Powerful Trixie didn’t just throw them into the ditch!” So saying, she flicked her head to the side, and drew out both the pot and tripod through the front window of the wagon. They drifted out and hovered in the air beside the steadily plodding Macintosh, who eyed them curiously before giving his head a shake.

“Nope.”

“Take them back right this instant! Trixie did not ask for any kind of help, nor does she want your pathetic charity!”

Macintosh frowned and eyed her anew. She was trying her best to look aloof and disdainful, but she was absolutely furious, to the point where the old adage ‘champing at the bit’ was very nearly true.

“It was a gift,” he said.

“Trixie doesn’t want your gifts!”

Macintosh was not the kind of pony who got angry easily. Matter of fact, last time he had gotten well and truly angry enough to raise his voice was nearly a year ago, and he had felt awful for days afterwards, not least of all because it had been directed towards his littlest sister. Still, Trixie’s attitude was abrasive to say the least, and the big stallion could feel his hackles starting to rise.

“You ain’t from around here, are you?”

She scoffed, again. “I should think not. My family lives in Canterlot, not some tree-studded muck hole.”

“Well missy, you ain’t in Canterlot, and out here when you get something given to you, you smile and accept. You don’t give it back; that’s rude as rude can be.”

“As if the Great and Powerful Trixie cares what your quaint folk-ways are.” So saying, she dropped the things right in Macintosh’s path, forcing the big pony to draw up short to avoid trampling them. Truth be told, it wasn’t like he could really damage them; the pot was cast iron, made by the kind of craftsponies who believed that the best pots were the kind that could float down an active lava flow without so much as deforming. If anything, it would probably damage the cart rather than the other way around.

Trixie drew her own wagon to a stop a little further on, turning back with a smirk to watch what Macintosh would do.

The big pony rubbed his face into a hoof, letting out a long sigh. He could sort of grasp just why Trixie was being stubborn and he had a fair bit of experience dealing with such ponies, considering he lived with a sister who could put twelve mules to shame, but Trixie was a level of stubborn even that bull-headed mare could not dream of achieving.

“Listen,” he said, taking up the pot and tripod and balancing them neatly across his back. He marched towards Trixie, pulling up alongside her, “Yours is broken, and I don’t mind letting you have mine. I can borrow a set from my cousin just up the road. It is no trouble whatsoever.”

“Trixie doesn’t need your help,” she repeated, tossing her mane and starting forward again. This was actually the wrong direction she wanted to travel, but one way was just as good as another in the end, and she wasn’t about to admit to a wrong decision in front of the hick.

Macintosh felt his temper starting to roil, but forced it down. He tossed the pot and tripod into the back of his cart before moving to catch up to the singularly most stubborn pony he had ever met. “Fine. I’ll not help you then, but how about I let you know that my aunt is a ‘smith? Dunno if she could fix that pot o’ yours, but you could ask.”

“This is salient to my exigency,” said Trixie, who grinned when she noticed how Big Mac’s forehead wrinkled a bit as he tried to decipher just what she had said. “It means yes,” she added, and smiled when she saw Mac’s frown deepen.

---

It wasn’t far to Turnover Hills, though it is amazing just what one’s company can do to distance. Had Macintosh been travelling with either of his sisters, they would have probably been singing or telling stories or any number of other things to pass the time. Hours and miles would have drifted by unnoticed, and there would have been any amount of smiles and laughs shared along the way.

Trixie was not cheerful company. It wasn’t that she was miserable company, it was just she had no apparent interest in doing any of the usual things ponies in a company did to pass time on the road, primarily by being company. Instead, she made sure to stay several cart lengths in front of Macintosh, marching with purpose and her head held high.

It wasn’t the silence that was grating on Mac’s nerves; there was few things the stallion enjoyed more than simply watching the world go by without a word being said. It was the way the silence was being presented, with Trixie taking pains to let him know that she had no interest in talking or even sharing the trip.

This was one of the rare moments in Mac’s life where he was seriously considering actually disliking a pony.

Every minute felt like five, but by the time the sun was overhead both wagons had drawn up at an ornate gate set before a neat little cobbled path that drove in through tidy rows of apple trees all in bloom. Green leaves were outnumbered ten to one by the tiny white petals of the flowers, their scent filling the air with a delicate perfume. The ground beneath the trees was blanketed white with fallen blossoms, white as snow, giving the impression that a blizzard had passed through leaving the look but none of the cold.

Sweet Apple Acres had the best soil for growing, all the family agreed, but Turnover Hills was easily the most picturesque.

Macintosh looked up to the sign above the gate. It was all carved woodwork, his great uncle Turnover having been a fair hoof at carpentry back in the day. A latticework of varnished wood, looking much like the strips of pastry on a cherry pie, with carved bundles of apples and grapes and cherries all surrounding the ornate lettering that spelled out Turnover Hills.

"This is your cousin's farm? What a mess."

"What?" Macintosh was startled; how could any pony with working eyes not be taken with the beauty of the place?

Trixie frowned and waved a hoof at the petal-strewn path. "Would it be so hard to pass a broom over this, or take a rake to the grounds? I mean, honestly..."

Mac's jaw worked soundlessly as he stared at the strange pony, then turned his head to look again at the world beyond the gate.

Silky white petals drifted down from the trees in ones and twos, a soft snowfall in the late spring warmth. Tiny bees buzzed about amongst the blossoms, a living chorus to the songs of joy from the countless birds that lived amongst the branches. There, over the trees, the largest hill on the land was striped with the green vineyards that produced some of the sweetest grapes and the best wine in central Equestria. Sharp eyes could spot a few colourful shapes moving along the rows on that hill; ponies seeing to their day's work. Turnover Hills was the very picture of an established farm governed by honest, hard-working ponies who genuinely loved the land...

"You know, I met city folks who would love to see this place," said Mac slowly. "Matter of fact, there's been a few photo shoots done here by some big magazines-"

"No doubt for issues favoured the uncultured sort who dig the ditches or whatever on the outskirts. The real elite don't enjoy this kind of... low living."

He gave her a long sideways look and wondered if describing Twilight Sparkle's eager helpfulness on occasion around Sweet Apple Acres, even with her new royal title and wings, would knock the uptight pony down a peg. He decided against it though, namely because he knew the two had butted heads more than once, and Trixie struck him as the kind of pony who would gleefully pounce on the opportunity to insult the pleasant librarian princess. Macintosh would be the first to agree he wasn't the fastest horse in the race, but he knew enough not to kick over anthills.

"Well, they're just flower petals, and no one's gonna be sweeping them up for you," said Mac with unusual sharpness. He gave his cart a tug and pulled through the gates, not particularly caring if Trixie followed.

His parents had gotten married beneath the blossoms at Turnover Hills...

Comments

[a3V]

A much as Trixie would have loved a soft life

Hmm hmm.

Hay Martian :U

[moguera]

Big Macintosh glanced up curiously when he heard a shout from the wagon, and caught a glimpse of something vaguely jar-shaped speeding off towards the horizon at the kind of velocity usually reserved for the space shuttle.

I don't think there's any hard and fast rule about this, but it's generally best to confine your analogies to objects that are found within the setting of your story.
...
...
Unless, of course, Equestria has a space program in your story. :

[ValorlordV5]

2680212 I've always assumed that Equestria's development was mostly parralel to our own, despite the differences that come from the seperate traits of carnivores and herbivores. By my thinking, it's not a big stretch for them to have a space program. Anyways, this is a really great story. Just all in all fantastic. I love the characterization, I love your metaphors, I love the humor. Just fantastic every way.

[Captain-Brony]

Hey!! I remember this from Fanfiction