YOH 1493: Can Big Mac save the three-year-old Apple Bloom from mortal peril? And what will he do about the longer-term threat posed by the bear?
YOH 1493: Midnight Nights / Before Nightfall continuity.
Three years ago, Applejack left Sweet Apple Acres for good to live with her Orange kin. This has left Big Mac as the only young, healthy Pony able to work the farm.
The ninteeen year old stallion is strong, smart and highly-responsible, and Sweet Apple Acres could have no more capable manager. The problem is that he must also watch his youngest sister; three year old Apple Bloom, who has a tendency to wander into trouble.
Will little Apple Bloom wander into mortal peril? And, if she does, will her big brother be able to save her?
As usual, Big Mac's first intimation that something was wrong came with a sudden shrill sound from his sister.
It was neither a shriek, nor a scream of pain. It was high, tinkling merry laughter, a sure sign that something had amused Apple Bloom.
This was not necessarily a good sign. Apple Bloom found many things amusing, including some from which full-grown Ponies quite reasonably quailed in terror. Apple Bloom was an optimist; she assumed the world and all within to be friendly. She was also exceedingly brave. These were charming attributes for a three-year-old filly; however, they were not necessarily survival traits, especially for a three-year-old filly living on the outskirts of the Everfree Forest.
As Big Mac shrugged himself free from the plow's traces in one single, fluid and well-practiced movement, his mind briefly flashed back to an earlier occasion on which Apple Bloom had laughed much the same way. That time, Big Mac's little sister had found a rattlesnake with which to play -- she had squalled in foalish fury when Mackie had desperately darted in and trampled the serpent, squashing it to jelly under his huge hard hooves while managing to avoid striking even a glancing blow to the fragile little filly right beside the viper.
That had been an interesting experience, where "interesting" is taken to include waking up in a cold sweat for weeks thereafter, shaking in terror at the realization of how very easily things might have gone wrong, and left him with one less little sister. That was the day Big Mac fully realized that his relative fearlessness concerning his own fate did not prevent him, by any means, from knowing stark terror on behalf of a loved one.
The memory spurred him forward. He broke out into a full gallop, from almost a standing start, and dashed into the underbrush. Leaves and branches lashed him unheeded; his only acknowledgement of their presence was to blink when they whipped too close to his eyes.
As he broke through the belt of undergrowth on the edge of the Everfree, fears flickered through his mind. What, precisely, had Apple Bloom found to entertain her? Few large predators came this close to Sweet Apple Acres, so it probably wasn't anything like a Manticore. Timber Wolves sometimes did -- the animated woodpiles were extremely aggressive, more so than natural animals -- but Bloomie knew, due to her encounter with them last season, that Timber Wolves were not at all funny or playful.
No, at worst it was some normal predator -- maybe a fox or coyote or wolf or even bear. A deadly threat to a small filly, but of these the only one Big Mac wasn't certain he could overcome would be a bear -- and he was faster than any bear ever born. If he could get to Apple Bloom in time, she would be okay.
The brush fell away, and he was racing along a deer trail through the woods. Above, multi-canopy vegetation closed off the sky. It was a cool green-tinged darkness, silent aside from Apple Bloom's giggles. Thank Celestia the filly's still laughing, thought Mackie. His own hooves loudly cracked and rustled branches and leaf-litter under them as he ran.
He dodged around the bole of a tree, and abruptly Apple Bloom's red-topped yellow form was in view. Alive, laughing and in no worse danger than the worst of his imaginings.
Apple Bloom had found -- or been found by -- a big brown bear.
The bear was already bigger than Big Mac, and it had probably not yet attained its full growth. Mackie knew that its bones were thicker even than his own, its musculature immensely powerful, the beast quite capable of felling him with a single strike anywhere along his own spine. Even a blow elsewhere could break his bones, and each great forepaw was armed with claws longer than the thickness of Mac's own hooves. The bear could kill him with those claws; even a wound would do terrible damage.
It could, of course, kill little Bloomie without even really trying.
That was why, when Big Mac saw the bear, he did not even consider backing off, but instead increased his pace, charging directly in, shouting "Hey! Yew! EeYAHH!!" It was vitally-important to fix the beast's attention on himself, rather than on his vulnerable little sister. Big Mac was fairly sure he could survive a glancing blow from the beast; he strongly doubted Bloomie could do the same.
As Big Mac closed the distance, two things hapened. Bloomie turned and cooed delightedly at her big brother, "Hi, Mackie!"; and the bear emitted a great bawling roar, and reared up to its full frightening height.
Even at this moment of supreme danger, Big Mac was sufficiently calm to notice an important point: the bear was not so much roaring as bawling, indicating more confusion and fear than active aggression. This did not mean that Apple Bloom was safe; a confused or spooked bear could still lash out with lethal force. But it did explain why Bloomie wasn't dead yet, and it meant that Mackie had a good chance of getting his sister away from the bear without either Pony getting hurt -- if he moved fast.
Big Mac moved about as fast as any Earth Pony ever did over uncertain footing; driven on by his love for his little sister. At the penultimate moment, he feinted left, then flung his whole body to the right, scooped up Apple Bloom in his mouth, and dashed to the right, running past the bear.
As he ran, Big Mac glanced over his shoulder. The bear whirled with dismaying speed, one great paw coming down toward his rump in a mighty slap. Big Mac leaped foward, and -- instead of smashing his pelvis -- the bear's paw instead swatted his tail, missing Mackie's dock and just tearing hairs out from his skirt of straw-colored tail hairs, doing nothing worse than stinging the big stallion.
Big Mac lit out of there as if he had a bear on his tail, because that was the exact situation. He had to pay very close attention to his footing, for a stumble at full gallop with an angry bear chasing him would be a more than usually unfortunate occurrence. The glance or two he was able to snatch behind him showed the bear, running faster than Mackie would have imagined possible on his clumsy plantigrade paws, keeping up a fairly close pursuit. Big Mac knew he could not afford to slow down, for any distraction.
Apple Bloom constituted a minor distraction. The little filly was crying and squirming in Mackie's oral grasp.
"Ah wanna play with the big doggie!" she complained.
The 'big doggie' made whuffing noises disconcertingly close behind Big Mac's tail.
"Mmmph-nope," replied Mackie, eliciting further wails.
Big Mac well knew the woods through which he raced; he was currently making a beeline west-southwest from the Southwest Fields, bearing directly away from Sweet Apple Acres, running through the fringes of the Everfree. This was not so dangerous a part of the hell-forest. Long before he got in very deep, the bear would be winded; compared to Ponies, bears were poor endurance runners.
The problem was that, when this happened, the bear would be between Mackie and Sweet Apple Acres. This meant that to make their way back home, they would either have to chance meeting the bear again, or take a wide arc to avoid it. And bears were smart -- given the chance, the bear might attempt to ambush them.
So Big Mac began a gentle curve to the right. He dared not curve too sharply, for if he did the bear might cut his corner and attack him from the side. But Mackie was a powerful runner over rough ground, and he had a slight edge in speed; thus he was able to turn the chase around, until they were running toward the farm.
He timed this perfectly, for just as this happened, the bear began to slow, its great strength finally flagging, worn out by the effort of propelling its huge body on flat feet at the ends of legs short and poorly-jointed for running. Bears were ambush predators, capable of a short sprint at speed, but not the magnificent, miles-devouring gait of Ponies. The bear slowed to a shuffle, and then sat down, panting heavily. Big Mac could plainly see its baleful glare as it fell away behind him.
Ah'll have to do something about that, Big Mac thought, a slight shiver down his spine as he considereed what might have happened. This could have gone bad real easy. What if I'd been just a mite slower grabbing Bloom, or dodging the bear's strike? What if it had come on Granny or Grampa? They cain't run so fast no more. That bear's just not shy enough around Ponies.
Now, there's nothing else fer it. Ah'll probably have to come back and put the brute down.
He felt slightly saddened at the notion. Big Mac was determined to do what was necessary, but he did not enjoy killing -- certainly not killing anything as smart and Pony-like as a bear.
Big Mac walked through the fields of Sweet Apple Acres, heading back toward the house.
During much of the trip, which Bloomie made riding her big brother, she scolded Big Mac for being 'mean' to the 'nice friendly big doggie.'
Innocent lil' mite, Big Mac thought to himself. She ain't yet learned the world can be mean and cruel. That it can gobble up a lil' filly and not regret it one bit. Life an' Light, I wish she never had to learn no different!
Sadly, the outskirts of a hell-forest were no place for innocent trust. And Bloomie might have to grow up fast when it came to survival. Granny had been only eight or nine years old when she'd ventured into the Everfree, in search of food for her family, and stumbled across the Zap Apples. She'd run her own deadly race, with Timber Wolves, and won -- and if she hadn't, she'd have been dead over ninety years, and neither Mackie nor Bloomie would ever have been born. Lives sometimes hung on such chances.
Big Mac disapproved of dissimulation, and that went double where important facts of survival were concerned, so -- though he hated to disabuse Apple Bloom of her innocent notions -- he told her the truth:
"Weren't no dog, Bloomie," he said solemnly. 'Was a bear."
"Was a friendly bear!" Apple Bloom said.
"Bears ain't friendly," Mackie informed her. "They's wild animals. They're not tame like dogs. They'll kill yeh and eat yeh, if'n they get the chance. Like Timber Wolves."
Very technically speaking, that last bit was untrue, as Timber Wolves did not directly eat meat. Instead, they killed animals, tore off their flesh, and used it to fertilize the trees to which their bizarre lives were linked. Big Mac was very pragmatic about survival, and extremely honest, but he saw no reason to tell a three-year-old filly something that might well give her screaming nightmares if she thought about it -- and it was a fact difficult not to think about, when one heard the Timber Wolves howl in the winter nights.
"That bear was friendly," Apple Bloom insisted.
"He tried to tear mah ... uh, flank ... clean off!" Big Mac protested. He chose the tamer term at the last moment, almost forgetting to do so in his indignation at his sister's statement. He generally tried to avoid bad language around Bloomie; he did not want her to grow up potty-mouthed, as if she were some sort of Whitey hill trash.
Of course, his main goal was to make sure that Apple Bloom lived to grow up. And to that end, he considered it to be important that Bloomie did not confuse wild brown bears with friendly old hound dogs.
"He didn't like yew," Apple Bloom commented, with impeccable logic. "He liked me."
Big Mac nearly got angry, then considered what she had just said. Bloomie was right -- as far as her reasoning went. It was obvious that the bear could have killed Apple Bloom any time it had wanted to do so. It may or may not have really liked her, but it obviously had not meant her harm. Maybe it liked her, or maybe it just hadn't been hungry, right then and there.
The bear had just as obviously been trying to hurt him, though. It may have felt threatened by his charge, or wanted to teach him a lesson, or maybe it was just annoyed that he'd taken its little filly-toy away. Something had set the bear off, though Mackie wasn't exactly sure what.
That was, indeed, the problem. Bears were smart enough to be unpredictable, but not smart enough to think through the consequences of their actions. This made them extremely dangerous. The bear may have liked Apple Bloom at that moment, but there was no guarantee that it would have liked her the next moment.
And the bear might still be lurking right outside the farm.
Even if it makes Bloomie cry, Big Mac realized, Ah'll have to drive off that bruin. Hunt it, scare it away if I can -- put it down if I cain't. Mackie was not entirely comfortable with the notion of killing something as smart as a bear save in defense of his family, but in defense of his family he would have massacred dozens of the beasts.
"He could've hurt me bad," Big Mac said.
Apple Bloom hmmphed skeptically.
"He wasn't chasing us just to say 'howdy,'" Big Mac pointed out. "He tried to cuff me hard, and if he'd hit, I'd 'a been lamed, or worse. He might have torn yew up, too, if'n he'd caught us. He definite wanted to hurt me."
"You were mean to him," Apple Bloom countered. "You yelled at him."
Big Mac wasn't sure what to say about that. His tactics had been aggressive -- but necessarily so.
"I had to yell at him. Had to run in fast. To save yew!" he protested.
"You're a meanie," Apple Bloom decided. "I'm mad at you!" Her little yellow face was screwed up with all the considerable determination of which she was capable.
Big Mac sighed. He felt shipwrecked upon the rock of his little sister's disapproval. He was more than six times her age and size, but being bigger meant little in this sort of situation. He loved her; he had acted out of love for her; and she thought he was just being cruel.
There was not much he could do. He'd tried reason. He could yell at her, or punish her, but that would simply confirm her opinion. He was the father-figure in her life, but he sometimes couldn't deal with her alone. He wished he had a mare to help him, to act as a mother to her. Things would be happier -- and a lot less lonely -- with the right mare at Sweet Apple Acres by his side.
Through most of his adolescence, he'd hoped to win one particular filly. She was really good with younger children; she could have dealt with Apple Bloom, found the right words to say to her. Unlike himself, Cheery had always been really good with words. She was as intelligent and eloquent as she was beautiful. Really nice, too.
But she'd gone on to a bigger life; a better life, at school in Canterlot. He saw her occasionally, when she came back to Ponyville to visit her mother Strawberry and her sister Berryshine. The last he'd heard, she had a colt-friend in Canterlot. No doubt her colt-friend would marry her: Big Mac could not imagine anypony passing up the chance to wed Cheerilee.
He sighed again. Had he ever had that chance? He was two years younger than her, and an uneducated hick compared to her. She'd been his friend, yes, and as children and young adolescents they'd played together; roamed all over these hills. They'd leaned, hugged ... a few times, even kissed. But that was just foalish flirtation. He had been a fool to think that she might ever really become his own.
That was fantasy. His responsibilities to his family were real life. Someday, perhaps, he'd marry some mare, probably an heiress from a nearby farm, who would want his strong back and keen mind to help her run her property. He hoped she'd be a good mare, sompony who would be kind and loving toward him. He intended to be kind and loving toward her, whoever she turned out to be.
But she wouldn't be Blackcherry Lee Punch. There was only one Cheerilee, and they'd broken the mold after they'd made her.
He sighed a third time, and walked the rest of the way home, silent in his own thoughts, as his sister was silent in her disapproval of his actions.
By the time they reached the farmhouse, Apple Bloom was tiring from the combined excitement of her adventure and the effort of maintaining her disapproval of Big Mac. Her little head drooped on her brother’s back even as her strong little legs maintained a firm grip on his barrel. Mackie was glad of the dear little burden, and even gladder that she was sleepy, because it meant that her criticism stopped.
As he stepped in through the main door, he was greeted by his grandparents.
“Hey, Mackie-boy! Yew all right? Yew look like yew’ve been out there wrestlin’ cragodiles!” came the gruff, friendly voice of Gramps Blackie Smith Apple. His shrewd steel-gray eyes twinkled at his grandson, ascertaining that – despite the twigs and leafs in his mane, and overall sweatiness, Big Mac seemed to have taken no serious harm.
As always in the last couple of years, Big Mac heard the growing hollowness in his grandfather’s voice, noticed that the hair on his once-lush gray mane had gone wispy and snow-white. Big Mac had never really seen Blackie young in life – when Big Mac had been born, in 1474, Blackie was already over eighty years old – but he remembered when Blackie had been strong and vital, powerful muscles like cordwood under the old stallion’s black-and-gray speckled hide. Now, his once big and sturdy frame, similar to Mackie’s own, seemed wasted, as if it were collapsing and shrinking in on itself while its owner yet drew breath.
Black Smith had been, as his name indicated, a blacksmith – a small-scale ironworker with his own forge and anvil. He was born into the last era of old-fashioned iron smithing: when as a colt, he had first begun working the bellows at his uncle’s forge, the force of falling water had already begun driving mechanical trip-hammers; by the time he gained his mastership, steam-powered ironworks were beginning to spread through the Realm.
His first masterwork had been a wrought-iron hearth grating, depicting two entwined trees. One of them was a chestnut, the tree traditionally associated with blacksmithing. The other had been an apple tree, of course. He had been a big and handsome thirty-six; Greenie Apple had been a sweet and lovely thirty-four; he had given it to as a courtship present. She had been so touched that she had accepted his suit on the spot; in two months they were wed.
The story was romantic, the way they told it. It was also true in its essential details, and the iron grating still adorned the hearth at Sweet Apple Acres. His coal-black and her golden blonde mane were now white, but their love was still fresh and green, as Big Mac could plainly see from the warm and affectionate glances they always exchanged.
There was still a good place for a blacksmith in a rural town, especially in the days before the railroad came, when it was still expensive to ship finished metal goods cross country. Black Smith Apple, as he now called himself, had brought in the bits making and repairing tools for the farms of Ponyville, and some of his fancy work – both originals and licensed designs, was marketed through Barnyard Bargains by Granny’s friends the Riches.
Stinking Rich had lost out in love to Black Smith – that was a whole other story – either more or less romantic than the hearth grating, depending on how one looked at it – but he was a stallion of honor and he had been gracious about Greenie’s marriage. Black Smith’s wares and designs were profitable – Stinking Rich had never been one to let a personal grudge stand in the way of good business. He was, in his own way, a very honorable Pony.
Granny now regarded Big Mac with some alarm. “Land a’sakes, Mackie,” she asked him. “What have you been doing? I hope you really haven’t been a-rassling cragodiles!”
“Run into a bear,” Mac informed them, swinging Apple Bloom down onto a well-cushioned chair. “It was curious ‘bout Bloomie. We was lucky – it didn’t hurt her none. Ah grabbed Bloomie and got the hay out of there, fast. It took a swipe at my tail – subtracted some hairs, but Ah warn’t really hurt.”
“Oh, sweet Celestia!” Granny said, coming over to Apple Bloom’s side, bending down, examining the little filly minutely. “Yer right, thank Light an’ Life,” she confirmed, looking back at her husband Blackie. “The foal ain’t harmed.”
"We cain't let that varmint hang 'round the Acres," Gramps growled. "Ah should take after it, with Ol' Bessie."
'Bessie' -- Blackie's arbalest -- had been in part been crafted on his own forge, and in part built for him by some sort of secretive monster-hunting organization which Blackie, Greenie and Greenie's cousin-in-law Strudel all belonged. Sometimes at reunions, Blackie and Greenie would chew the greens with Strudel and his wife, Greenie's favorite first cousin, Rose, and they would all talk about what they'd done together for the Watch back in the good old days. Bessie was a powerful and well-crafted weapon: a triple repeater with a selection of special bolts, including armor-piercing, explosive and chemical tips, and made of high-quality steels. It would have counted as a masterwork, if Gramps had done it all himself.
Given the location of Sweet Apple Acres, and the fact that the Apples held it free and clear of all property taxes so long as they did "ward the Vale against what might come out of the Everfree," Blackie and Greenie had kept Bessie, and kept her in good condition. The Apples did not seek out trouble -- they scorned the supposed glory of war -- but trouble sometimes came to find them, or duty made its call upon them, and then they took out Bessie, and other things that they kept hidden, and used them as need be, to the great regret of Equestria's foes.
"Yore in no way to be gallivanting all through the Everfree," Granny said, worry tinging her voice. "Yew've been doin' poorly, sugar -- in lots of pain, and limpin' bad. Yew specially don't want to be wanderin around in the woods with a bear on the rampage."
"Ah ain't dead yet, ol' mare," Gramps snaped angrily. "Ah've still got some fight left in me!" He surged to his hooves, then winced and sat down again, his voice strained. "Hmm ... think Ah need mah dose o'laudanum."
"Ah'll bring it," replied Granny, getting up. Her own limp was much less extreme, and she showed none of her husband's signs of extreme weakness.
Mackie knew the reason; Blackie's condition had been diagnosed just two years ago at the new hospital, Ponyville General. Bone cancer, and inoperable. They'd discussed some new procedures being pioneered in Baltimare, but it would have cost a lot of money to send him there -- they'd have had to mortgage the Acres unless they could get their agency to foot the bill -- and Blackie hadn't been given much of a chance of remission even then. They might have been able to get the Watch to cover it -- it might well have been a delayed effect of something that he'd encountered once, something that they only referred to as "the color" and which they refused to describe in detail, but that still sometimes gave them nightmares -- still, the procedures would have been extensive, and painful, and probably useless.
No, the truth was that Blackie was dying. He was, after all, a hundred and two years old, and fast approaching his hundred-and-third birthday. Though it wasn't uncommon for Earth Ponies to become centenarians -- both Blackie and Greenie were now over a hundred years old -- few lived more than a couple of decades into their second century, and those who did were rarely in good health. Granny was still only slightly impaired, but Blackie's time was swiftly running out. Such were life and death, and Mackie knew it, though it still hurt him when he thought upon it as it applied to his once-mighty grandfather.
Granny gave Gramps the laudanum and a spoon. Then she had to use those implements herself, measuring out and feeding her husband his dose, because his hooves were shaking too badly to hold the bottle and spoon steady; if he'd had to do this himself, he might have spilled the precious medicine. The old stallion slurped and swallowed the mixture of tincture of opium with alcohol, heaving a sigh of relief when he had consumed the medicine.
He needs the medicine now, Big Mac thought. It's all that's between him and the pain. He's so weak now -- he used to be so strong. Ah hate cancer. Ah hate the word, Ah hate its sickly stench, and Ah most'all hate what it's doin' to Gramps. He's a hero. He deserves better'n this.
But this was nevertheless what Blackie had gotten. This was the reality, the truth tat they must all quietly endure. It made Mackie want to cry, to see his grandfather brought so low, but he could not afford the luxury. Blackie was fatally weakened; Greenie all torn up inside watching her husband suffer; Mackie's parents were dead; Applejack was away in Manehattan; and Bloomie just a tiny little filly, almost still just a foal -- she could not even understand what was happening. Big Mac could not cry, because right now, he had to be the strength of his whole family.
He must be their hero, now.
"Grampaw," Big Mac said. "Yer feelin' a mite poorly right now." Nothing but the truth. There was no point in adding that it seemed unlikely that his grandfather would ever be feeling all that much better from now on. The whole truth was unnecessary, because Blackie already knew it, surely better than Mackie ever could. "Mebbe I should take care o'that bear," he suggested, "this time." His tone was calm, but firm.
"Mah job!" Blackie insisted, "huntin' the monsters!" Again he rose from his chair. This time, he succeeded in keeping his hooves. He took a step; grimaced in pain. "Ah am feelin' poory today," he admitted. He stepped back to the chair, sat heavily down. He closed his eyes for a moment and sighed. "Mebbe you should deal with the critter, after all. This time."
"Eeyup," Big Macaffirmed, and he turned to go up the stairs.
"Whar yew goin', Mackie-boy?" Gramps asked him. His voice was gruff, but his tone gentle.
"To fetch mah huntin'-crossbow," Mac answered.
"That's a mite small fer bear, don't yew think?" Blackie asked, almost teasingly.
"It'll do," replied Big Mac, vaguely annoyed by the casting of aspersions on his own crossbow.
"That's as may be," allowed Blackie, "but Ah reckon yew might want something a bit bigger." He turned to Greenie. "Darlin' mare," he said, smiling, "could you get out Ol' Bessie fer our grandson, the new fearless monster hunter?"
There was no mockery in his grandfather's voice. Only love, and pride.
The same love and pride that filled Big Mac's heart.
Big Mac stepped carefully through the forest, moving with even more than his usual deliberation, because he was wearing his grandfather's hunting leathers, and bore the unfamiliar burden of Ol'Bessie and her bolts on his back. The weight was not that much; Bessie weighed twice as much as Mackie's normal hunting-crossbow, and her bolts were proportionately almost as massy, but these were fairly light loads for a stallion as healthy and strong as was Big Mac. If necessary, he was sure he could run at nearly his normal top speed at a full gallop, for almost as long as he might have done naked.
This was an important consideration, given that he was searching for something that could easily kill him if it were able to catch him in close combat. Blackie had impressed this point upon his grandson.
"Mackie," the old stallion had said, "Ol'Bessie a right pow'ful weapon. She can take down almost anything short of a full-grown Hydra or Dragon, or such-like, with one good hit, and with time ta' prepare and the right sorta bolt, she might even give you a chance against that sort o'critter."
He reached out, stroked the steel frame of the arbalest almost lovingly. "Ah once took down a Gnoph-keh with one bolt, with mah Bessie," he said. "'N'other time, stopped a Shoggoth right in its, um, slime trail, with a special chemical head Glass Flash whipped up fer me -- saved Ink Well's life with that shot." He smiled in reminiscence. "Those were the days."
For a moment he was lost in his memories. Then he returned to present reality.
"Point is," Blackie continued, "Ol'Bessie's a fine weapon. But she's a ranged weapon. Yeh can save yer last shot fer point-blank if'n yeh reckon it wise; but after that, yer in melee, as they call it. Hoof-ta-hoof combat. Or, in this case, hoof-ta-claw. An' when yer mixin' it up that close, yeh don't got time to reload, an' the critter's prolly inside yer weapon anyway, yeh cain't bring her to bear -- heh, literal cain't bring her to bear!" He chuckled. Then his tone sobered.
"Bessie's heavy an' tough enough to be used as a club. "She's made of high-quality chromium steel, with just a pinch o'moonsilver. Didn't forge the main frame here -- Ah'm not and never was set ta do that kind o' work at Sweet Apple Acres. Made that in a blast furnace, over in Bitsburg, ta specs none other than the Faithful Tourmaline brought over from the Fall o' the North-Realm, about a thousand years ago -- but that's a whole other story.
"Anyhow, Ah doubt yew could hit any critter hard enough to break Bessie's frame," Blackie said. "Sights are more fragile, though, an' if yew buckle the frame, even a hair -- which mind yew ain't that easy -- yew'll put her aim off. Which'd be a right shame, seein' as Ah crafted her to decimillimeter tolerances, with parts of her done to almost micron tolerances with the aid o' a magesmith. She's a real precision instrument, is ol'Bessie, an' if yew treat her like a lady, she'll do right by yew -- put her bolts dead on center ev'ry shot. But if yew just go bashing critters with her -- well, that's no way ta treat a gal like her, yew see."
"Also," he added, "if'n yew do bend her frame, Ah'm not set up to fix her here -- cain't straighten her frame proper with mah little forge and press. Not nary enough heat and force and precision, yeh see, with the tools here on the Acres. For major damage, Ah'd have to take her ta the fires where she was wrought -- it's Swift Industries owns the plant now, over in Bitsburg. For minor tune-ups, a'course, Ah just bring her into Canterlot, where the Watch has a well set-up machine shop; they can bend her a little bit, and will do it for me, fer ol' times' sake.
"Ah cain't do the work mahself no more, but Ah can show the workers how ta do it, an' Greenie knows where Ah keep mah notes on Bessie, if'n fer some reason Ah cain't show them. So Bessie can be, if needs be, repaired from most anything likely ta happen to her -- but Ah'd rather not have to. Ah'd rather not see Bessie hurt."
"Ah'll take good care o' her," Big Mac promised.
Blackie had smiled, at that. Then he'd showed Mackie how to take care of the arbalest, and specifically how to transport it.
Blackie's hunting leathers, which covered Mackie's forward half and parts of his hindquarters, attached to an equipment harness from which various weapons, ammunition and other supplies could hang. The leathers were light -- soft and supple -- and provided some protection against thorn and claw. They covered his chest, forelegs, and forward barrel, with a harder-leather gorget on the hollow of his throat, where his well-muscled neck was the most vulnerable. They also extended back to cover his spine to the base of his tail, his hips and his outer thighs. Mackie might be a little warm in them, but they were not at all cumbersome.
The harness itself, made of strips of thicker and tougher leather, was both light and provided some additional protection against slashing weapons. Blackie had special cases and sheaths for all sorts of equipment, most especially Old Bessie. The arbalest rested within a big padded wooden case, designed to protect it from being banged against obstacles as the bearer went through obstructed terrain. The crossbow case was placed to enable its bearer to easily open and close it without removal from the harness, and rapidly withdraw or replace the weapon within: a feature of obvious practicality when hunting dangerous creatures.
Blackie had Big Mac practice a bit with the arrangement. He also showed Mac how -- in a pinch -- to grip Old Bessie and carry her with one's mouth. It was even possible to run at nearly full gallop with her held in this manner. Blackie told Mackie that he had actually done this, more than once, and warned him that it was hard on both mouth and neck to carry the crossbow in this way for too long.
Aside from the arbalest, Big Mac carried relatively little. A long hunting knife, of the kind popularly called a 'White Tail Toothpick,' named for the inhabitants of the mountains to the west-southwest, was sheathed at his left thigh. A water canteen hung on his right side; a first -aid kit was strapped to his left. A hunting purse, hanging around his neck, contained flint, steel and various sundries, including some well-wrapped apple fritters. Mackie could have carried a whole lot more, but he did not want to render himself slow or clumsy. He was not an expert hunter, but his woodscraft was sufficient for him to grasp why this was so important.
As he made his way through the woods, heading back toward the place he had last seen the bear, he mulled over the advice his grandfather had given him on how to hunt the bear. Blackie had warned him of their keen intellects, surly disposition, brute determination, tough bodies, and excellent senses of smell. The old monster hunter had adviced him regarding avenues of approach, choices of ammunition, vulnerable anatomical areas, and similar issues. Big Mac paid close attention to his grandfather's hard-won wisdom.
But the advice Mac most treasured, Blackie had saved for last.
"Mackie," the old stallion had told him, his voice thick with emotion. "Ah know yew want to make us proud, an' keep us safe, an' o'course Ah hope yew don't damage Ol'Bessie. But -- if it comes ta' the sharp end, an' it's a mater o' yore life, against losin' the bear or bendin' Bessie -- just remember this. Yew kin allus' hunt the bear again if'n he gets away. An' Ah kin fix Bessie a darn sight more easy then Ah can fix yew. So watch out for yoreself, grandson. Yore worth more to me than clearin' out a bear or keepin' mah arbalest from gettin' broken, even if'n she is the best darn arbalest in the world an' Ah made her mahself!"
Big Mac well understood what his grandfather really meant b this formulation, and tears moistened his eyes. He reached out suddenly and hugged the old stallion, ignoring his grandfather's half-hearted protests. Mackie held Blackie, wishing that he could protect him and keep him safe, just as his grandfather had protected and kept him and everypony else safe from the monsters. A moment later, a third pair of arms embraced both of them, to the extent possible given that both Blackie and Mackie were big stallions. Granny Smith was hugging both her boys -- her husband, and he rgrandson.
The warmth of that moment remained with Big Mac long afterward, both on that day and on many of the other days of his eventful life. It was a perfect memory of family love, and soon after -- as he walked to the door -- he had looked back at his grandparents sitting at the table, and down at little Apple Bloom sleeping on the couch, and the scene filled his heart with determination.
Big Mac reached the place where he had left the bear.
He approached the location carefully, from downwind, so that if the bear were still there, it could not smell him. He had Ol'Bessie gripped in his mouth -- as Blackie had warned him, the weight of the weapon was uncomfortable held in that fashion, but Mac needed to be able to ready it quickly in case he needed to shoot fast. The magazine load was broad-bodkin-bodkin -- a broad-headed bolt on top, which could inflict a wide wound at the cost of penetration; followed by two narrow-headed bodkin bolts, which would sink deep, even into a bear, but not cut as widely into its flesh.
Big Mac also minded carefully where he put each hoof. Complete silence was almost impossible, on the littered forest floor, but if he avoided stepping on dead branches, and stepped slowly, the sound of his motions would be lost in the soughing of the wind through the trees above. This was a soft sussuration: it was remarkably quiet in the forest, once one penetrated past the margins into the true multiple-canopy zone. The trees screened the ground floor from both direct sunlight and direct wind it was not like on the Acres, where the apple trees were well-spaced, arranged by equine minds and hooves to suit equine ends.
For a moment, he fancied that some other sort of mind had conceived this forest, arranging it with alien minds and manipulatory appendages to suit alien ends -- a mind vast and strange, and not necessarily friendly to Ponykind. Then, he smiled wryly. He was letting his imagination gallop away with him; never a wise nor a safe thing to do in the Everfree. Less dangerous here, near the Acres, than it would have been in the deep Everfree -- but still a bad idea.
He needed to keep his wits -- and senses -- well about him. Ol'Bessie's powerful tension and lethal accuracy would do him little good if he was so lost in his fantasies that he tripped over the bear; or let it ambush him. He had one major advantage in his arbalest, but also had advantages in his superior speed, sight, hearing and -- most of all -- mind. If he proceeded wisely, he knew himself to be more than a match for the bear. If he was foolish, however -- he might still fail, or even fall.
Big Mac had little difficulty locating the track of the race he had run with the bear; or finding the exact site where the bear had sat down in exhaustion to glare after him. The bear and he were both big, and in a hurry, and a lot of things in their path had been crushed, bent or broken, leaving an unmistakable trail. Where the bear had rested, everything was rank with his scent -- though Big Mac's sense of smell was weak compared to that of a bear, he was far from nose-blind.
Re-casing Ol'Bessie, Big Mac literally bent to his task of tracking the bear. First, he described most of a circle around the bear's resting place, attempting to ascertain if the bear had departed by a different route than by which it had come. It would have been convenient if it had, for this would have allowed him to follow it along a wholly new trail, rather than have the clues of its new movements muddled by the need to pick them out from those of its prior passage.
Alas, the bear's actual behavior had apparently failed to conform to Big Mac's desires, for -- try as he might -- Big Mac could discern no sign that the bear had walked off in any direction other than that by which it had entered. Mac would thus have to perform the more difficult feat of determining at exactly what point the bear had diverged from its back trail, in order to follow its trail further.
Big Mac acceted the necessity, and slowly and systematically applied his senses to the center and both sides of the back trail. Mackie was not a professional tracker; there were Ponies in the White Tails far his better with such skills. However, he knew the fundamentals of the art; and he was well-endowed with the intelligence, perception, diligence and above all patience required of a tracker.
So it was that, after he had back-tracked a bit over one hundred hooves, he discerned broken branches to the right of the main trail that, with a confirming whiff of some brown hairs caught on them, made plain that his quarry had here turned off his former path. That the bear had turned away to the north -- toward Ponyville -- was surprising. But then, bears often raided equine gardens; perhaps the bruin had formed some such intent.
He followed the new trail, and noticed with some concern that it was indeed going straight toward town. This was an obviously dangerous situation -- not only for himself, but for the fifteen hundred or so Ponies in Ponyville, most of whom were not carrying arbalests capable of bringing down a bear. And, most specifically, it was dangerous for the few dozen Ponies who lived south of the river.
Bears were not malevolent monsters out of a Nightmare Night tale, which is why it was possible that this one had gotten into the habit of visiting the outskirts of Ponyville in the first place, without causing much alarm. But they were big and unpredictable, and not particularly respectful of Pony property rights. All it would take would be one reckless Pony trying to drive the bruin off with a broom or some such implement, and the bear's anger, to lead to tragedy.
This only made more urgent and necessary Mackie's self-imposed task. It was the duty of the Apples to ward Ponyville against "what might come out of the Everfree," and the Everfree was exactly from where this bear had emerged. Better that Mac, armed and ready for trouble, meet the bear than that it come upon some innocent fillies at play, or gardener tending her crop.
The thought of a gardener made him think of the Carrots, whose property he was passing. They were nice Ponies, the family friends of the Apples since pilgrim days, when Violet Carrot had been one of the most trusted companions of Dawnflower Apple. Cosmo Red Carrot, now at college in Canterlot, had been one of his best friends growing up. His younger brother Landscape, still helping Greenshoot run the farm, had been Jackie's best friend, until Jackie moved to Manehattan. The even younger sister, Golden Harvest, was a sweet filly, just turned thirteen. And there was a youngest brother, Brownshoot, only a couple years older than Bloomie. He kenw them all well; he was determined to keep them from harm.
As the bear's trail approached closer and closer to Ponyville, Big Mac noticed that it was heading right toward one particular property. A certain suspicion began to build in his mind, for he knew that the owner of that property was a very unsual Pony indeed. And one who -- if she were especially foolish -- might have taken a particular interest in the bear.
The Hermit of the Everfree.
A year ago, a previously-derelict house way over on the edge of town near the Everfree -- left vacant for a while because nopony wanted to live that close to a haunted forest out of which things sometimes came -- was purchased, and occupied by a solitary Pegasus filly. That she was solitary was strange, because she was quite young; younger even than Pegasi usually leave their families for good. That she was a Pegasus was also strange, because generally Pegasi do not like to live in the woods: clouds and hills and mountains are more normally their habitats.
She was, as the popular name for her suggested, something of a hermit. She came into town from time to time to buy supplies, but she spoke to no one unless spoken too, and even then mumbled so that she was difficult to understand. She made no friends, not among Ponies. But folk who had come by her house said that they had seen her consorting with all manner of wild animals -- birds and small furry vermin, mostly -- feeding them, and even talking and listening to them as if she imagined they had the power to understand Pony speech, and she to understand their own.
Nopony had reported seeing her with a brown bear. But it would fit her pattern.
If the Hermit were feeding a brown bear, she was doing something incredibly stupid and dangerous. Big Mac could see how the Hermit might get along with small critters -- she probably had some sort of Talent for animal handling -- but a big surly carnivore like a brown bear could turn on her and kill her in an instant. Which it might do, if it didn't like her food, or she didn't have enough food, or feed it fast enough -- or if it simply decided that she was tastier food than whatever she'd brought out for it today.
Big Mac, of course, did not know the Hermit. He was pretty sure he'd seen her once or twice at a distance -- a gangly yellow-coated, pink-maned filly, somewhere in her early to mid teens from her appearance, surprisingly beautiful considering that she avoided other Ponies. She had seen him too -- he'd caught a flash of blue eyes before their owner hid them behind her extremely long pink mane. However, no words had been exchanged; they hadn't passed close enough that any sort of greeting would have been socially-mandatory on their parts.
So the Hermit was hardly his friend. But neither was she his foe, and Big Mac felt a certain fundamental equine horror at the thought of some poor innocent filly being mauled by a bear. This particular bear was probably in a rather bad mood about now, and might respond in a less-than-grateful manner to an offer of food.
Big Mac picked up his pace, traveling as fast as he could given the necessity to avoid losing the trail.
Big Mac tracked the bear right to the edge of the Hermit's back yard.
One of the indications that the Hermit was strange was that she had not, as would most sane Ponies, seriously fenced off the portion of her property which directly bordered the Everfree. There was a small stream out front, which served as a moat between her house and the main road, bridged by a small stone arch; out back, there was nothing but a dual-rail fence, no higher than Mackie's breast, which anything large -- predator or Pony -- could easily overleap or even overstep, and with the rails set sufficiently far apart that smaller creatures could simply push between them. As security against the hell-forest, it was a joke -- its function purely indicative and decorative. A chicken-coop out back was better protected, with actual wire fencing that would serve to keep away hungry foxes and weasels.
It was almost as if the Hermit found the beasts of the Everfree no more frightening, or possibly even less frightening -- than she did her fellow Ponies -- which, given the way she was said to walk among the beasts and shy away from Ponies, was a conclusion which Mackie could almost credit, though it implied that she was seriously crazy.
Big Mac did not like to assume his neighbors to be crazy, even though he knew for sure that some specficially were crazy, at least on certain topics. In particular, some were timid to the point of absurdity, while others were so reckless that Mac wondered how they managed to survive.
Mackie wasn't entirely sure whether the Hermit was timid or reckless. Possibly, she was both: timid where Ponies were concerned, reckless in dealing with beasts. If this was true, Mackie strongly sympathized with her timidity -- he was somewhat shy himself talking to other Ponies, especially ones he didn't know well. He and the Hermit might even be kindred spirits in that regard.
He wasn't particularly friendly to wild beasts, but he wasn't terrified of them either. Proof of this was that he was out here alone, hunting a fairly dangerous one. He had a strong suspicion that the Hermit would not approve of his actions in this matter; but then, there was no particular reason why he should go out of his way to please her, especially when one of her supposed beast friends was nosing around his farm.
Was he being reckless? He was taking a risk, to be sure, but not as grave a risk as was the Hermit. He was an almost full-grown stallion, and considerably larger than most; the Hermit was a willowy filly in her early teens. He was bearing an arbalest capable of slaying almost any beast, while the Hermit had never been known to bear any arms. He knew from experience that he could take care of himself in a dangerous situation.
T'ain't the same thing, Big Mac decided. She prolly figgers if she feeds that bear he'll be her friend. But he's wild. He could turn on her and tear her apart.
The thought of this happening to a beautiful young filly distrubed Big Mac on a fundamental level. Protecting mares and fillies, in Mackie's view of life, was one of the main things that good stallions were for. And Mackie always tried to be a good stallion, just as his father had been before him.
Ah cain't let this happen, Big Mac realized. Ah have to protect all of us from this bear.
It was obvious that the bear had rested just beyond the Hermit's back yard; the grass was pressed down over a rather large area, and examination revealed copious amounts of coarse brown hairs shed there. Indeed, the quantity shed was so large that it was almost as if the bear had been systematically brushed. There was at least one clear Pony hoofprint and several partials around where the bear had lain, and he could see strands of long pink Pony hairs caught in a bush, and some pale yellow ones.
Big Mac almost could not believe the obvious implication of these clues. Could the Hermit have been grooming the bear, almost as if it were the "big doggie" of Apple Bloom's foalish imagination? It almost seemed impossible that the bear would submit to this. Surely this was an incredibly dangerous thing for the Hermit to do -- if she accidentally hurt the bear with one of her brush-strokes, it could break her bones with a casual cuff. Yet there were no signs of a struggle, no blood anywhere.
Mackie decided that he had to talk to the strange Pegasus filly.
He circled around the property to the front, easily leaping the small stream. Then he approached the front door by the bridge. Coming up to someone's back door, especially armed to the teeth, was an impolite thing to do; it might have been positively dangerous in some of the more remote parts of the White Tails. As he stepped onto the Hermit's property, he called out to announce his presence.
"Halloo!" he said loudly. "Miss Hermit, Ah'm Macintosh Apple. Ah need to talk with you about a bear. Can you hear me?"
There was no answer from within, but he did see a motion by one of the front windows. A curtain twitched slightly.
"Miss Hermit," Mackie continued, "Ah don't mean you no harm. Ah just want to palaver. This bear ... he's a-wanderin' close to mah farm, Sweet Apple Acres. An' Ah'm feared he may hurt mah little sister. Ah think he's your bear, or at least you know him real well. Ah need to talk to you about it."
The curtain twitched again.
Big Mac worked sideways toward the window and peered in through the glass.
Two small and extremely angry-looking beady black eyes, set in a snarling white face much smaller than that of any Pony, glared into Big Mac's own much larger ones. The creature hissed with extraordinary malevolence.
Big Mac gasped and stepped back in momentary fright, before he realized that what he was looking at was merely a white rabbit.
One of the Hermit's pets, he realized, blushing in shame at the way that he -- who was hunting a bear -- had managed to be terrified by a rabbit. Ah sure hope the Hermit didn't see that.
The rabbit chittered at him, giving him a good scolding in its own vocalizations.
"'Fraid Ah don't speak Rabbit," Big Mac said, grinning at his own foolishness, "so Ah'm afraid your words are lost on me. But if yew happen to see yer mistress, yew can tell her from me that Macintosh Apple of Sweet Apple Acres came to call, and needs to speak to her on a matter o' some import. Sorry if'n I scared yew."
The rabbit made a derisive sound, almost as if it had understood him and was letting him know in no uncertain terms that it was well aware of who had scared whom.
"Right," replied Big Mac. "See yew round." Look at me, he thought, laughing at himself as he walked away from the Hermit's front door. Spooked by a rabbit. And then explainin' mahself to it. Some mighty monster hunter Ah am.
Mackie circled around the Hermit's property again, leaped the stream again, and made his way back to the place where the Hermit had on the evidence brushed and groomed a big brown bear. He examined the periphery of the spot carefully, trying to determine in what direction the bear had gone next.
He picked up the bear's trail without too much difficulty. For a bear, this one was not the most woodswise, and it was clearly moving without much concern for pursuit. It had seemed young, and was probably a bit foolish -- which, unfortunately, might make it even more dangerous, since it might attempt aggressive actions toward Ponies a wiser and more experienced bear would avoid.
Still Big Mac moved cautiously, and he kept Ol' Bessie's case open so that he could draw her in an instant. This forced him to be careful about his posture -- if he bent over he could drop the arbalest -- but he did not want to have to fumble for his weapon if he came suddenly upon the bear. The heat of the day increased, as the afternoon drew on, and he was uncomfortably warm inside his hunting leathers, but he would not have dreamt of stowing them, and robbing himself of their protection.
Around him were the sounds of the forest, some of which he could and some of which he could not understand. Beyond the soft sounds of his own hoofsteps and the sighing of the wind in the upper tree branches, there were bird calls. At one point a jay followed him, scolding. At another point he saw flashes of motion as small furry brown things darted under cover at his approach. If he had been a true hunter, like some of the expert woodsponies of the White Tails, all this would have conveyed volumes of information to him: as it was, he noticed more of it than would have townsponies.
Once something very large flapped by overhead, above treetop level and going in the opposite direction. He turned his head to look, and saw a brief flash of something yellow-and-pink. He wondered if the Hermit had just flown by overhead, perhaps heading back to her house. A Pegasus in a hurry would of course clear the treeline, so that she wasn't slowed by having to dodge the branches.
When nopony landed nearby to speak or otherwise deal with him, he continued on his way. It would have been useful to ask the Hermit what she knew of the bear, but he didn't have time to dawdle. The bear's current track was taking it back toward the North Fields of Sweet Apple Acres, and the neighboring Carrot Garden. HIs grandfolks and Apple Bloom would be indoors, but he hadn't had time to warn 'Scape or Carrot-Top, and they might be letting little Brownshoot play outdoors. What if they met the bear?
Fear for his friends drove him on, not faster -- for he feared to lose the trail -- but with renewed resolve.
The trail proved easy to follow. The bear was ambling along slowly here, frequently stopping to pick berries or nose about in the underbrush, searching for this or that ursine delicacy. The bear evidently did not believe he had an enemy in the world, or at least one powerful enough to endanger him.
As Mac's missing tail hairs proved, this did not mean that he was necessarily harmless.
When Big Mac caught up with the bear, it was almost anti-climactic.
He was still most of a mile from the Carrot lands when the sky opened up ahead. It was a slight rise. A great tree had fallen; he could plainly see its shattered trunk. In its ruin the giant had brought down lesser trees, and left a gap in the canopy: a gap which had been colonized by various fast-growing shrubbery.
Mackie might have missed the bear at first glance, brown fur against brown bark, had not his keen ears heard a great cracking sound, and drawn his eyes to the motion of powerful muscles rippling under the bear's coat as it tore through the bark of the dead tree, its great form half-concealed by the fallen bole. Even though he had seen it rear before, the renewed evidence of its size was shocking.
Mac took in breath, but remembered to do it gently, so that the gasp did not give his position away to the bear's own sensitive hearing. The wind blew gently from the north; Big Mac was slightly favored in terms of the direction of scent dispersal. With what it was doing, the bear probably couldn't hear him, though if it paid attention, it might be able to smell him.
Moving very deliberately, Big Mac ducked behind another tree, hiding himself from the bear's sight if it looked up, and to some extent muffling himself behind its mass. Still, he knew that any loud noise would be heard, would alert the bear, and he very carefully pulled out Ol'Bessie, making only the most minimal slithering sound of metal against leather as he did so.
Even so, he feared it might be too much noise, and his heart pounded as he moved back out around the tree, arbalest levelled at the last place he had seen the bear, where he now did not see it. The words of his grandfather sounded in his mind ... Remember, Mackie-boy, don't fix on jest what's in front of yer bow, that's called 'target-fixing' and yew're open to ambush that way, and he forced himself to dart his gaze to both sides, ensuring that the bear was not approaching him from some direction other than the direct line.
Luck was with him. A moment later the bear shifted position, and he saw its great shoulders rise slightly as wood ripped and cracked; it had probably pulled loose a big strip of bark. Then they vanished again, and there were great slurping noises. Whatever bugs or grubs it was hunting had fallen victim to its great strength, intelligence and appetite.
Mackie's problem was obvious. He didn't have a clear shot. If he took a shot during one of the moments when the bear showed its shoulders, he would be lucky to hit at all, and it would probably be a glancing blow, likelier to enrage or frighten than to slay the beast. His grandfather had warned him of the potential threat of a wounded bear.
Ol' Bessie was a repeater, so he could probably ready the next bolt before the bear would be on him, but could he stop it with only one solid hit, before it struck him down? Or, if it instead fled, could he run it down and finish it off before it bolted clean across the Carrot farm, possibly encountering one of the Carrots?
Should he stay here and hope for a better shot? Or try to work his way around the log and bring the bear into clear view? Could he possibly do that without making too much noise?
For what must have actually been much less than a minute, but felt like an eternity, Mackie was immobilized by indecision. Then chance took the decision out of his control.
Something suddenly felt different. The sounds and smells around him seemed to shift ...
... and the bear suddenly hoisted itself right on top of the fallen tree, and looked directly at him.
Big Mac could see the bear in complete detail. It took a great sniff. Its ears went up. And its little yellow-rimmed, red-pupiled eyes peered myopically, straight at himself. It looked first surprised -- then angry.
Big Mac released the safety, pointed the arbalest right at the bear's center of mass.
The bear suddenly looked frightened, almost as if it somehow knew what Mac was holding.
There was a great flapping sound above. The bear and Big Mac both looked up.
And suddenly, right between Mackie and the bear swooped the Hermit of the Everfree, almost as Big Mac remembered her -- yellow-coated, pink-maned and blue-eyed, a filly who could not have been more than fourteen years old. The main difference was that she did not look timid at all. Those big blue eyes were glaring right into his own.
With a tremendous effort, Big Mac managed to keep perfect control of the arbalest, keeping it leveled without pulling the trigger, and thus did not murder the young teenaged Pegasus before him. He felt a sudden sick horror as he realized what he might have done.
"What the -- what are you doing! Get out of the way!" Big Mac shouted.
"What do you think you were doing, Mister?" the Hermit said, in a tone of voice which was all the more frightening for its barely restrained rage. There was something leaking from the corners of those big blue eyes which were not tears, and which Mac found suddenly terrifying.
"Were you? Going? To shoot? My friend?" With each short burst of speech, the Hermit flapped foward, hovering on her flightfield, and something stabbed from her eyes, something which Mac could not precisely describe or begin to understand, but which felt like knives stabbing into his mind, immobilizing his every muscle, rendering him helpless.
Big Mac was incapable of speech -- and suddenly he realized that there was something in this woods far, far more dangerous than any bear ever born.
The Hermit was a mind-witch. And she was not at all happy with him, right now.
Big Mac looked into the big blue eyes of the Hermit and realized that he was completely helpless. And possibly in very grave danger. He had never heard ill of the Hermit, aside from her strangeness and standoffishness; it seemed unlikely that a thirteen year old Pegasus filly meant to kill him. On the other hoof, right now he was mesmerized by her gaze, incapable of moving a single voluntary muscle, and facing not only a mind-witch but a probably-angry brown bear, though he could not tear his attention away from those terrifyingly-intense eyes to tell what the bear was doing. Right now, the Hermit's eyes were the center of his whole universe, whether he liked it or not.
He tried to speak, tried to give her a placating smile, and discovered that these muscles were also paralyzed. She or her familiar bear could kill him, and he wouldn't be able to fight back, or protest.
Or even answer her question.
She seemed to realize this too, because her expression softened slightly. "Oh!" she said, and her voice sounded more like the soft, dulcet tones he had imagined it would be when he had caught those distant glimpses of the hermit. "You can't talk. Oops -- sorry -- I'll give you back your voice."
She did ... something, Big Mac wasn't entirely sure what ... and the pressure on his mind let up slightly. He still couldn't move most of his body, but now he thought he could talk. He gasped and coughed by way of testing his renewed control over his throat muscles.
"Thankee kindly, Miss Hermit," Big Mac said. He still couldn't move his head, but he could now move his eyes, and he saw that the bear had moved closer, to a position behind and to the side of the Hermit, one from which if it wished it could step forward and in an instant strike him down. But it was not attacking, and he somehow knew that it would not do so unless he attacked the Hermit, or she ordered it to hurt him.
"You're welcome," said the Hermit, levelly. Her voice was no longer as hostile, but it was still far from friendly. There was a somewhat breathy tone to it, as if she found the effort of talking to a Pony strenuous. "Now -- why were you pointing a crossbow at my friend Harry?"
"Harry?" Big Mac asked, then answered his own question. "Oh. The bear."
"Yes," the Hermit replied. "The bear. He's my friend, and if you'd shot him with a big crossbow like that ..." she looked down for a moment, "... high-tension, steel-framed repeating arbalest ... you would have hurt him very badly. Or worse. Why would you do something that mean?" There was almost a sob in her voice, as if she found it difficult to grasp why any Pony would shoot a huge brown bear.
But then, she had called Harry her 'friend.' Ah guess Ah'd be pretty mad at someone who nearly shot mah friend, Big Mac mused.
"He took a piece outta me first," Big Mac pointed out. "Mah tail."
The Hermit moved around him, and though Mackie couldn't see exactly what she was doing, was clearly looking at his hindquarters. "Oh, my," she said. "Yes, he swiped your skirt. Did he hurt the dock much?" Her voice was becoming solicitious.
"Eenope," Big Mac replied. "Missed it."
The Hermit turned to the bear. "Harry," she said reproachfully, "why did you try to hurt this Pony? I told you not to hurt Ponies -- it's no wonder he was hunting you."
The bear bawled. It was a complex sound, but BIg Mac could make nothing out in it that he hadn't heard in any other bear's bawl. It seemed a bit indignant.
The Hermit looked at Big Mac. "Harry told me that you ran at him and yelled, and grabbed another Pony he'd made friends with. Why did you frighten him like that?"
"Frighten ...?" Mackie began, starting to get mad; then considered his position. He was still paralyzed by the Hermit's spell, and still in the presence of her pet bear. "Miss Hermit, yore friend Harry was loomin' right over mah little sister! Ah was afeered the bear might do her harm!"
"Oh!" said the Hermit, clearly seeing it from Mac's point of view for the first time. "Oh, dear, I see how you might have gotten that impression. Oh, Mr. Macintosh, I didn't realize what had happened." She relaxed a bit, and Big Mac suddenly had the ability to move his neck muscles, though still not most of his body. "Harry doesn't want to hurt Ponies. He wasn't going to harm your little sister. When you yelled at him and grabbed him, he thought you were going to harm her. He was trying to protect her from you."
"Protect ...?" Then Mackie thought it through. If one understood nothing about Pony ways, save perhaps what one eccentric teenaged filly had taught one, his previous encounter with Harry might have looked like that. From the bear's perspective. It actually made sense.
"So you see," said the Hermit hopefully, "this has all been a big misunderstanding. Harry, you're not going to hurt Mr. Macintosh here, or any of his family, or any other Ponies that aren't trying to hurt you, right?"
The bear made a noise which Big Mac had to assume was affirmative, by the Hermit's answering smile.
"And Mr. Macintosh, you promise not to hunt my friend Harry here any more, right? You give your word, as an Apple?" The big blue eyes looked into Big Mac's own, this time with much less hostility.
Big Mac thought a moment. He didn't think that the Hermit wanted to hurt him any more; the terrifying mind-witch seemed to be receding, leaving a rather refined-seeming teenaged Pegasus filly. There was something in her tone and her manners which made him think that she was some sort of Quality, what the Pegasi called High Born.
Though she hadn't fully lifted her spell. He still couldn't move most of his body, still couldn't fight. And she still had Harry on her side. So he was still far from safe, if she changed her mind.
But if he gave his word -- at all -- he would feel honor bound. That would be enough for him, though the Hermit had been clever enough to ask him to give his word as an Apple, which meant that he would be bound by his family's honor as well. He wondered, briefly, if somepony had told her about himself, about the Apples, enough for her to realize just how seriously he took his own honor, and that of his family.
He really didn't have much of a choice, unless he intended to fight both the bear and the mind-witch, which would be difficult seeing as that he couldn't really move. And she didn't seem unfriendly.
And she'd made the bear promise first not to hurt him or his family, though he wasn't sure how far he could trust the word of a bear. Though he wasn't about to call the bear a liar, especially not right to its face while he was paralyzed.
"Eeyup," Big Mac said slowly. "Ah give mah word, on mah honor and mah family's hohor." Though he could now look slightly away from the Hermit's eyes, he instead chose to meet them completely, letting her see his sincerity. As a mind-witch, she could probably see that sort of thing directly, and he wanted her to know that he too wanted to bury the hatchet.
Something seemed to pass between their eyes, and it must have been close to what Mackie intended, because the Hermit gave a sort of little gasp, and then abruptly Mackie was free. His first act was to point the arbalest away from both the Hermit and Harry, then refasten the safety, making sure it was secure before he restored Ol' Bessie to her carrying case.
The Hermit and Harry both relaxed, which was good, because each of them was frightening in their own ways. The tension in that little clearing dissipated, along with the smell of fear from all three of them.
Big Mac breathed easier. Then he nodded at the Hermit.
"Thankee, Miss Hermit." A thought occurred to him, and he met her gaze again. "Ah cain't keep calling you just 'Hermit.' That's no way to talk to a young lady. Ah'm Macintosh Apple, but everpony calls me 'Big Mac.' How should Ah call you?"
The transformation in the Hermit's manner was immediate and obvious. Now that she was no longer in a life-or-death situation, defending her bear from his bow, she made a little squeak, sounding somewhat like "Eep," and suddenly shook her long pink mane so that it almost covered her face. One blue eye peeped out at him shyly.
"Um ..." she said very softly, sitting down and planting her forelegs directly before her abdomen -- a good position for protecting herself from a Peeper, though Big Mac had shown absolutely no inclinations toward such behavior. "Um ..." she said again, blushing furiously. "Um, I'm Fluttershy." The last came out as little more than a breath; had Big Mac not been leaning forward, ears up to catch whatever she might say, he might have missed it, and as it was he wasn't entirely sure that he'd heard her right.
Mackie had no idea why the powerful mind-witch was now acting afraid of him. He looked at the bear questioningly, but Harry just sat down and whuffed, finding immense interest in the contemplation of some ants crawling along a trail. He began licking up the ants.
"Alright, Miss ... Fluttershy, was it?" he asked.
The Hermit nodded furiously and then hid her face completely.
"Nice meetin' yeh," Big Mac began. "Good thing nopony ... um, or bear ..."
Harry looked at him with a kindly expression.
"... got hurt," Mackie finished. "Ah'll be goin' now, if it's all right with you, Miss Fluttershy." He was starting to feel nervous himself. This is a social situation now, Big Mac thought. Ah don't rightly know what to say to a mindwitch who ain't much more than a filly. T'aint normal.
She nodded again.
"Bye, Miss Fluttershy," Mackie said, and began walking down back down the way he'd come. Then he turned. "Um, yew prolly don't want Harry going too far in that direction," he pointed toward the Carrot Garden. "That's a farm family that way, and he might skeer them."
She nodded, peeped out at him for a moment. "Bye ... Big Mac," she said, and hid again immediately after speaking his hame.
"Bye," Mac repeatedly, awkwardly, and gratefully departed.
Strange filly, he thought. Guess she ain't so bad. Plumb powerful, though. Ah see why she ain't much skeered o'critters -- they're prolly putty to her mind-witchery.
Wonder why she lives all alone like she does, though? He mused on it briefly, then decided, T'aint none of mah business, Ah reckon.
Another problem had occurred to him.
Aw, shoot, Ah went out there all sure Ah was gonna shoot that bear, Mackie realized. Gramps and Granny are counting on me to succed for us all to be safe.
How am Ah gonna explain to them what actually happened?
He supposed he'd just tell them the truth. That always works best, he decided. So that's what Ah'll do.
With a slightly lighter heart, but some trepidations, Big Mac headed back for home.
So in the end Big Mac came back home to Sweet Apple Acres, with Ol 'Bessie undamaged but also unshot on his back, the bear unslain, but the threat ended, perhaps in part due to his actions.
He was not sure whether to feel as if he had won or lost. He had tracked the bear successfully; he had gotten him at bolt-point, in a position in which he probably could have killed him. But then the Hermit -- Miss Fluttershy -- had intervened and defeated him with her mind-magic.
And she could have slain him, once she had him fixed in her gaze. Of that Mackie was certain. He had never felt anything like the terrifying glare from those beautiful blue eyes.
In the end no one had been slain. Or even hurt. Or worse than frightened.
And the Hermit?
Where Mackie had thought to find a confused young teenaged Pegasus filly, he had instead encountered a force of Nature, a mind-witch out of one of the more frightening Nightmare Night tales, like "The Eater of Eyes." And when he had been overcome, at her mercy, instead of eating his eyes she had talked reasonably to him and secured a mutual promise of peace between himself and the bear.
And when she had that promise, from both the bear and himself, she suddenly became more what he had first imagined her -- a shy little filly who dwelt alone because she was afraid of Ponies; who befriended beasts, probably, because they were the only friends she had. A strange little filly who lived all alone in a house at the end of the lane from Ponyville, where it turned and became the road to Sweet Apple Acres.
Which was the real Hermit? The mind-witch? Or the innocent young filly? Or was she both?
He could not decide which, turn the question about as he would in his thoughts.
The farmhouse now loomed before him.
Well, thought Big Mac. Time ta face the music.
He opened the front door and stepped inside.
The whole family was gathered in the main room. Gramps was still sitting at the table, now reading a book. Granny was crouched down with Bloomie, doing something elaborate with the little filly's dolls and doll-dresses. Despite his trepidation, Mackie could not help but smile at the sight: knowing Granny, there was probably a whole story that went along with her actions. Granny was a wonderfully imaginative and skilled story-teller.
Granny's whole face lit up with joy at the sight of her grandson.
"Mackie!" she cried happily, getting up -- a bit stiffly, Mac noticed, her hips had been hurting her lately -- and running over to him, to enfold him in a warm embrace. "Are you whole, boy? Did that dreadful bear hurt you?" She sniffed and patted him in various places, quickly checking for injuries, rather as if he had been a little foal, rather than a big strapping stallion, well able to report on his own condition.
Mac was both comforted and embarrassed by the attention. He very obviously wasn't a little colt any more -- but sometimes, it was nice to be mothered.
"Mulciber's Forge, Greenie!" Blackie exclaimed. "He's a full-grown Pony who's been out hunting bear, not a little colt who fell down and might have a boo-boo! Let him breathe!"
Granny shot her husband a look of annoyance, but backed off from Big Mac.
""Mackie," cried Apple Bloom, "You're okay! You're okay!" The little filly ran over and flung herself around his right foreleg, nuzzling him.
"Eeyup," replied Big Mac, giving his little sister an affectionate nuzzle in return.
"Did you have to shoot the bear?" asked Bloomie, proving by this statement that she hadn't been completely asleep when they were getting out Ol 'Bessie earlier. "Oh, I hope you didn't have to shoot the bear!" She detached herself from his leg and looked up at him anxiously.
"Bloom," said Granny, "maybe yew'd better back off Mac for a moment, let him get to the table and sit down so he can tell all of us what happened." She reached forward and picked up Apple Bloom with one foreleg, kissing her head until the small filly squealed and giggled, momentarily distracted.
Big Mac took the advantage of the opportunity to step up to the table. As he briefly stood before his grandfather's level gaze, he felt a bit like a military officer going before a tribunal. Not that there was any hostile criticism in Blackie's eyes. Rather, it was Mackie's own awareness that -- if he had succeeded -- it had not been in the way he had originally hoped to win.
Mac hoped that what he had done would meet with his grandfather's approval.
"Pull up a chair an' sit down, Mackie," said Blackie, smiling at his grandson.
Big Mac did so. As was often the case these days, the chair creaked a little under Mackie's weight.
"How are yew, Mackie?" Blackie asked him. "Have yew come to any harm?"
"Eenope," replied Big Mac.
"Did yew find the bear?" asked Blackie.
"Eeyup!" answered Big Mac, proudly.
The old stallion leaned forward and looked deeply into Big Mac's eyes.
"Did yew git it?"
The nub of the issue, and the source of Mackie's trepidations in this interview. There was a perceptibe pause, as Big Mac tried to figure out the best way to explain himself without sounding weak and whiny. Finally, he chose the simplest solution.
"Eeeenope."
It was the honest answer, but still Big Mac felt his face flush. He knew his cheeks were probably purpling, a sing that his grandparents, who knew him better than anypony else still alive, could read well. Then, very suddenly, he added: "But Ah think we're all safe now!"
Blackie cocked a bushy salt-and-pepper eyebrow at him. "Perhaps," he suggested, "yew'd better tell the tale at length. We could spent forever playin' Sixteen Questions on a hunt like this."
So Big Mac told them.
It was a comortable and friendly sort of interrogation. Granny brought out some apple pie and cider, and they all enjoyed the pie and cider together as the questions and answers went back and forth. Mackie's grandparents smiled at him, and gently prodded the taciturn young stallion, upon the frequent occasions when words failed him. Fortified by pie, cider and kindness, Big Mac related the whole story of what had befallen him.
All three of his listeners -- Gramps, Granny and little Bloomie -- paid rapt attention to the tale. Gramps asked some highly-pertinent questions, which in the course of answering, Big Mac perceived new insights into his adventure. He saw how some of his choices had been very good ones, and others not so good. He realized with full force that his grandfather was an expert in work such as he had just attempted.
Granny's questions were fewer but if anything even more insightful. She was curious as to the reasons why he and the other two actors in their little drama -- the Hermit and the Bear -- had chosen as they did. One question, in particular, flustered him greatly, without even being all that inherently personal.
Big Mac had wondered, out loud, as to why the Hermit had become so shy at the very end, when at the start of it she had been so forceful.
Granny looked at him almost in disbelief, as if he were a very small Pony standing next to a broken cookie jar, mumbling his innocence through a mouthful of cookies, that he had no idea how it had all happened. And then she smiled at him, and said:
"If'n yew think back on it, Ah'm shore yew'll see the reason."
And for a moment, Big Mac was about to protest No, Ah don't see no reason -- Then he contemplated just how he may have seemed to the Hermit, who avoided the company of her fellow Ponies, but was just getting old enough that she might have begun to perceive one obvious disadvantage of her solitary life, suddenly confronted with his own self. And then he knew. And the knowledge took him to new depths of embarrassment, because Mac had certainly not been trying to influence the Hermit that way.
He certainly did not want her the way he had wanted Cheery -- still did, really, though he knew now that it was unlikely he'd ever have the smart, beautiful, classy young mare, two tantalizing years his elder, in any such fashion. Nor even the way that he had ogled -- and on two shameful but delightful occasions, more than ogled -- some mares of far less intelligence and virtue than Blackcherry Lee Punch. Among other things, the Hermit was really just a young filly: under her mysterious powers, little more than a child.
But he did feel strangely protective toward the mind-witch; he knew that she could not be all that experienced with the use of her abilities, or with life in general. He knew how close he'd come to accidentally shooting her, something which he was devoutly thankful he had not done, because he did not think her powers could have protected her from a bolt hard-driven by Ol' Bessie's metal cables, nor that she would have survived a hit from one of those bolts anywhere near the center of her mass.
At no point had the Hermit actually tried to kill him. Or even hurt him, really. Facts which spoke well in her favor, because once she did have him in the grip of her power, she could have done whatever she willed with him. He did not think that the strange teenaged filly who called herself "Fluttershy" was at all evil.
Some of the questions his grandparents asked him were strange. For instance, if he had at any point seen anything that looked like a glossy black bug-pony with translucent wings and a jagged horn. Or if he -- under the Hermit's power -- had felt like he unaccountably loved her?
His answer to both questions was "Eenope." The only big flying thing he'd seen that day was the Hermit herself. And he'd been frightened by Fluttershy's power, rather than feeling love for her -- he only started to feel sympathetic toward her at all after she released him from her spell.
For some reason, Mackie's grandparents seemed relieved by both answers. Though Big Mac was not quite clear at that time as to just why they might imagine him to encounter bug-pony monsters or seductive witchcraft -- well, the Hermit was a mind-witch, but she didn't seem to be that sort of an enchantress, at least as far as Mac could tell.
Finally, their questioning ended, and Big Mac had to ask a giant question of his own; one which he had been putting off asking until they had heard all his testimony.
"Did Ah do right?" Mac asked his grandparents, his eyes shifting from his grandfather's gray eyes to his grandmother's orange. "Yew sent me out there to put down the bear -- and Ah didn't. Ah let it live -- and worse, Ah promised not to hunt it again. The Hermit had me at a disadvantage, but at the moment she asked for my word, she only had mah muscles under her power, not mah mind. Makes all the difference. Ah cain't break mah given word -- not if she keeps to her side o' the bargain.
"So Ah failed yew, failed all o'yew. Ah didn't shoot the bear, though Ah had the best arbalest ever made. Ah couldn't -- Ah was too slow, an' then the Hermit had me. There was a moment Ah could've shot the Hermit -- but Ah couldn't just shoot somethin' that Ah thought was a harmless Pegasus filly. It just ain't in me. Ah'm not strong enough, inside, to hunt monsters."
Big Mac hung is head in shanme.
"Oh, Mackie-boy," Blackie said slowly. "Yore a young fool. A wonderful young fool."
Mac looked up in surprise. His grandparents wre both smiling at him.
"Mackie, yore the right kind o'fool," said Greenie. "Same kind o'fool as mah husband." The two elderly Ponies looked at each other with a look of utterly shameless and naked love, one that was almost indecent to witness, and then they directed a version of that love back at him.
"Yeh see," Blackie said. "Ol' Bessie's a deadly weapon. Any fool -- any brute with good eyes and steady hooves and the will to harm another -- kin kill with her. Don't take much brains nor even bravery -- Bessie's a ranged weapon, and kin kill most things with one good hit.
"Ah made all sorts of bolts for Bessie. Wide, narrow, sleepy, pizen, explosive, smoke, incendiary -- even Banes that can take down things bigger'n stronger'n yew'd think. Some could even kill an -- well, never yew mind. But there's one kind of bolt Ah've never been able to make, not even with the help of the best mage." His gray eyes gazed directly into Mackie's own.
"One that kin bring back to life someun' that Bessie's kilt," Blackie said. "Some day, mebbe, Ah'll tell yeh some of mah old stories -- the ones that ain't so much fun to remember -- and we'll talk about 'friendly shooting.' Which ain't all that friendly, really. Ah'm not a perfect Pony -- Ah've made mistakes in mah life -- and Ah wasn't always the one to suffer the wust for them."
"What Ah'm saying is that it's not bein' able to kill with Bessie that makes yew fit to bear her, or to be a monster hunter," Blackie paused, and when he spoke again his eyes were moist and his voice thick with emotion.. "It's knowin' when not to kill with Bessie that makes yew fit. An' if it means yew hesitate to shoot somethin' that looks like a sweet young filly, when yew have no reason to think she's anything but that, that makes yew the kind of fool Ah'm proud to call mah grandson. Or mah successor as a monster hunter."
Blackie reached out a hoof for Mac's own, and they held hooves. Greenie started outright crying and went around the table to hug him again. Bloomie, of course, could not be denied, and took possession of one of his hind legs.
"Thank you," Apple Bloom said, "for not shooting the big doggie!"
After they had all calmed down, Blackie said:
"Now, in dealing with the bear, Ah think yew did pretty good. Yew talked with his owner, or friend, or whatever it is with Fluttershy and Harry, and yew got her to see that she had to keep him clear of other Ponies or he might get hurt. Oh," said Blackie in response to Mac's startled noise, "that yew did. She was skeered when she thought yew were gonna shoot him, and she may have even realized that she came close to gettin' shot herself. An' yew skeered the bear, too.
"Yew ended the threat. Which was all yew needed ta do. We were all figgerin' that meant yew needed ta' shoot the bear, but yew don't, long as the bear knows it cain't be safe if'n it skeers Ponies. Ah have no partic'lar gripe against bears living in the woods. Long as they leave Ponies be, Ah'll leave them be.
"Yew know," said Blackie, "Yew'd be amazed at how many times our unit ended a threat from some kind'o monster by talkin' to it, lettin' it know that the best way for it to keep on livin' was just not be a threat to Ponies. Or how many kinds o'critters Celestia's willing to keep the peace with, long as they don't hurt her little Ponies.
He looked soberly into Big Mac's eyes. "Yew did risk yore life, yew know. Bear coulda ambushed yew. Hermit coulda been not as nice as she turned out ta be. Someday yew prolly will have to shoot, cause it'll be yew or it. Yew got a bit lucky today."
"For which," said Greenie, "Ah am very glad! Better when the hero wins an' nopony -- heck, even nobear -- has to die!"
"Hero?" asked Big Mac. "Me?"
"Oh yeh," said Blackie. "Yew were a hero today."
"A true hero," added Greenie, "like a knight in some ol' tale." She smiled warmly at him.
"Yay!" cried Bloomie delightedly. "Mah big brother's a hero!" She looked at him. "We should get yew a cape and stuff so yew can run around like one'a those fairy tale crusaders!" she decided enthusiastically.
"Eenope," said Big Mac to his little sister. "Ah'm not wearin' a cape. It'd look silly, an' catch on things."
"Awww ..." said Apple Bloom in disappointment.
"All Ah did was what needed to be done," said Big Mac. "Ah wasn't fearless. Ah was skeered."
"Heh, yew'd be a real fool if'n yew weren't skeered," Blackie said. "Ah was terrified in Antarctica. And that time north o'Griffonstone ..." he shivered. "Ah'm just glad Ah did what Ah needed ta do -- an' shot straight."
"So you are a hero," said Granny. "Now, let's get some real food on the table, afore we all spoil our appetites with too much dessert."
"Aww, Ah like dessert!" commented Apple Bloom. "And capes! Mebbe now that Mackie knows he's a hero, he'll wear the --"
"Eenope," said Big Mac, laughing.
In the farmhouse was only warmth, and light, and life.
And in the house at the end of the lane leading from Ponyville, where the road turned to become the one to Sweet Apple Acres, the hermit Fluttershy Wind, who had fled her family rather than be corrupted by their evil, cuddled against the broad warm furry body of her dear friend, Harry Bear, who had been badly shaken by his near-shooting, but was calming down now under the loving ministrations of the yellow-and-pink Pegasus. He sighed in contentment, and Fluttershy rested against him, with the little white rabbit resting against her in a mass made of of three different species, and all were happy and at peace with one another.
And Fluttershy drank in their ample love, replacing the energy she had expended in that desperate Stare. And she was full, and content, like a Queen in the midst of her own little Hive. And if she was sometimes troubled by a strange tugging on her spirit from the southwest, she was not thinking about it right now.
And some hours later, on the Moon a lost and lonely soul stared down at the City and Palace Canterlot, and past it to the ruined castle deep in the Everfree, to which she meant to return. In her, Love warred with Hate, and it was far from obvious which would triumph in the end.
Though, in just seven more years, all the world would have a chance to find out.
