The Wanderer
“If you don’t get lost, there’s a chance you may never be found.”
–Anonymous
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She blew gently on the smoldering embers, her breath carrying small, scalding sparks into the oil-soaked kindling she had piled. Her body, old and trembling as it was, did not recoil from the sudden gout of flames; instead, she took a calm step back and pulled the grate down over the fire.
The mare had lived in the tower for quite a while. Every night, she would trot up the stairs and light the fire, casting a beam of light across the sea. Many had asked her how the light shone in such a straight line, and she often told them of the young colt who had come to the shore seeking destiny. He had devised a series of mirrors, suspended from the floor by rigid cable and metal beams, and focused the light into a beam that could be swung back and forth across the coastline at will.
However, that colt had not been by in quite a while, and the old mare had not heard anything about him since. But, she reminded herself, that was the way of the travelers; she was a stop along the way, a warm haven amid the perilous ocean-side storms, and visitors rarely stayed after a clear daybreak.
Rain started falling outside, pattering soft hoofsteps into the circular spiral of the stairway. The old mare sighed, her hooves finding the stairs she regularly traversed even as she closed her eyes to relish the sound.
Down below, a much more solid tapping rang from the entryway. The old mare opened her eyes, a small smile gracing her face as she hurried down the last few stairs. "I'm coming, dearie!"
She nearly galloped past the half-walls lining the lighthouse's house-like bottom half, excitement nipping at her heels. She slowed down at the same time she reached the door, pulling the tassel hanging from the doorknob. The door's lock clicked open as the tassel moved, and the door swung inward.
And, standing in the light rain that was quickly turning heavy, a young colt shivered.
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Scribble had traveled a long way to reach the lighthouse. It might not have been his actual goal, but when one had been nearly running for over a week, and had managed to separate oneself quite well from society, and a storm began brewing, one normally changed destination rather quickly. Scribble had, of course, heard of the lighthouse; not only was it one of the most well-kept signals of the coast, many of the passing ponies he had talked to had spoken of the place.
"It was like finding heaven at the point I was at," one of the colts had laughed, shaking his ginger mane from his eyes. "All mussed up and with a lame back leg; she took me in and nursed me back to health. She probably saw it as nothing, but I had been running away from some Pegasus supremacists at the time," he had flipped his mane back to show his horn more clearly, "and had nothing left to go back to. I fixed her up a nice beam for her light; the thing needed a bunch of repairs."
"She takes in anypony who shows up on her doorstop. Not even ponies, sometimes! I bet she has a lot of good stories to tell." A pegasus mare had tilted her head, looking down at the little colt. "Maybe you should stop by there. You look like you need a nice warm meal; I bet you don't normally look this down, hm?"
And so it was, when the rain started to fall, Scribble shivered and galloped down the rest of the road. Charging up the front steps just as the heavy downpour began, he pressed himself up against the wall to get a little bit more shelter and rapped his bare hoof on the door.
"I'm coming, dearie!" A voice called out from inside.
Scribble stepped back from the door, spreading his legs slightly and clamping his teeth together to keep from shivering. He had to show the mare he was worth rescuing.
The door swung open, and a pale purple mare with a gray mane looked down at him. Wrinkles lined her eyes, joints and the corners of her mouth; expressions long faded having left faint traces of their being upon a similarly aged soul. Her mane was tied back, messy but clean, and her eyes were a pale purple, flecked with starlight as the light from inside shone on the raindrops and in turn shone back on her deep irises.
"Oh, my dear, come in! The storm will only get worse." She stepped back, leaving more than enough space for Scribble to dart in. Dripping and shivering, he stood awkwardly in the entryway, a cold puddle slowly forming around his hooves. The mare shouldered the door shut, sliding the lock closed with her teeth, gently kicked against a hat-stand, and the hat-stand promptly dropped a towel onto Scribble.
As the colt rubbed the rain from his coat, the old mare trotted back down the hallway. "Dear, what brings you here? In need of directions, dreams? Or simply in need of shelter from the storm?"
"Dreams?" Scribble asked, flipping the towel onto his back. "Why would I come here for dreams?"
The old mare laughed, glancing back at him as she turned into one of the rooms. "Well, what else are stories told for?"
Scribble hurried after her, frowning. "Stories?"
"Tales, writings, journeys," the mare had reared up to place her forehooves on a counter, and was stirring something with a large ladle clamped between her teeth, "my name is Journey. Yours?"
"Scribble." The colt trotted up to the small table near the center of the room, hoisting himself onto one of the four chairs waiting there. "Do you live alone?"
"Mm-hm," Journey whispered.
"Then why are there so many seats?"
"For those the wind blows in," Journey replied, spooning some of the liquid from the pot into a bowl.
Her ears lifted up as there was a hasty pounding from the door. She quickly moved the bowl over to Scribble.
"Here comes another one, dear," she called back as she left the room, "stay there, I'm coming!"
Scribble swung his back hooves back and forth as he sniffed tentatively at the bowl. Sure, he was hungry, but he didn't even know this mare...
Journey trotted back in just as he had stuck his tongue out to taste the meal, a young mare trailing behind her. Scribble sputtered in surprise, sitting back upright.
The old mare laughed. "Scribble, this is Bell Crystal. Bell, this is Scribble. Oh, where are my manners? Sit yourself down, dear, and I'll get you some soup."
"Is that what this is?" Scribble asked, taking another lick.
"Mm-hm, potato soup. My grandmother's recipe." Journey poured out another two bowls, handing one to Bell and putting the other down at her own seat. "Eat up, dears. Travel takes a lot out of you."
"Thank you so much for taking me in again, Miss Journey." Bell muttered. "I didn't mean to be a burden again."
"Never a burden," the old mare replied gently. "You're always welcome in my home, you know that."
"I didn't see anyone else outside, though, so we should be the only ones to drop in tonight." The young mare looked up at Scribble over the rim of her bowl. "I haven't seen you around. Are you new here?"
"Y-you could say that." Scribble looked down into his soup. "I'd rather not talk about it."
"Did someone die? Oh, no, I've gone and done it again!"
Journey took a step towards the young mare, muttering softly. Scribble watched in awed terror as the young mare's skin seemed to fade away, replaced by a skeletal frame with a patchy white coat stretched taut over the bones. The young mare - or whatever she was - had buried her face in her hooves and was sobbing heavily.
"Oh, honey, that's not what happened at all." Journey opened up a pair of wings that Scribble hadn't noticed before, wrapping them around the sobbing mare. He took notice of the many missing or tattered feathers, and of the small ripples of blue that spread over them whenever one of Bell's tears landed on them.
"N-nopony died?" Bell whispered, looking up, "really?"
Journey nodded, folding her wings up and moving over to sit beside Scribble. "Scribble, Bell is a banshee. She's used to being hated by the families of those who are going to be lost, when her messages provide them with time to say goodbye. She gets horribly torn up by it," she had dropped her voice, making sure the mare couldn't hear as she shimmered back into her equine form. "You must get used to seeing that kind of thing around here. Many of those seeking refuge from the storms are the ones others wish to be out in them. You will never be in danger here."
Scribble nodded, a tingle of fear making his coat stand on end as Bell met his gaze. She looked away quickly, back at her soup.
Journey picked up his empty bowl and placed it on the counter. "Why don't you head up to bed, you two? Just yell if you need anything. I'll hear you."
"Bed sounds good," Bell admitted, standing up. "I need a good night's rest. Goodnight, Journey. Goodnight, Scribble. I'll try to be out by morning."
"Don't stress yourself, dear," Journey called after her. To Scribble, she added, "try to be accommodating, please. I will never let someone unsafe into this home."
"How do you know who's safe?" Scribble asked, scooting his chair away from the table.
She smiled, and for a moment her eyes flashed silver. "I have my ways, dear. Now go get some rest. If you're staying here, you'll have to help out around here tomorrow."