A contribution to the "Ponies After People" universe. A late sleeper wakes up in a new world - as a thestral.
My first story here: a human, a dreamer, a night owl, wakes up in the post-Event world.
He finds himself no longer human, but equine - and batlike as well? He goes on a quest to find civilization, and discover his purpose in life. There are enemies to defeat, others to save, and his own existence to confront. What comes of that remains to be seen...
The show was about to start, and Ben couldn’t find his script. His family were in the audience, including his brother (he thought Kane was supposed to be dead; but there must have been a mistake?) He might have left the script in the car; but he couldn’t find his car, either.
He could remember a few lines: something about the Duke and the clown , and “Aye, that thou were in thine own company”; but the rest was a fog. Well, he’d wing it as best he could. He walked back down the path to the stage, floating a part of the way. It was a special talent, and he was proud of it; but nobody ever seemed to notice.
A dark figure stood in his path: had a deer got into the park?
No, it looked more like a unicorn, but with wings: it was a deep blue, its mane and tail flowing with stars. He felt somehow he should know her, but he’d forgotten …
The figure merely nodded gravely, and then was no more.
Inside his costume - some sort of cloak or toga - Ben felt a bulk that hadn’t been there before; he fumbled around, and closed his hand on a sheaf of paper. The script! He opened it eagerly, to check his lines; but a sudden wind tore it from him. He snatched at it desperately -
He wasn’t in bed. Too scratchy, and somewhat damp: and where were the sheets? The sunlight against his tight-shut eyes was too bright to be coming through a window; and the birdsong was too loud to be inside: a loud, triumphant caw annoyed his twitching ears. He rolled over on his back: that was a mistake. There was something irritating straining against his T-shirt underneath; meanwhile, he felt that his shorts had slipped down, and something was flopping around down there. And why couldn’t he feel his fingers?
Open your eyes, you damn fool. Reluctantly, he did so. The afternoon sun nearly blinded him; but a dark blur blocked his lower vision , however he turned his head. He tried to brush it away, but another dark blur obscured his hand.
There is perhaps no greater spur to wakefulness than physical discomfort. With a start, he roused himself, rolled himself back to his stomach, and opened his eyes. He was lying in a shallow, grassy depression, surrounded by trees: in a nearby beech, a single crow chuckled, and flaunted something white and flag-like in its beak.
He looked down: his arms were covered in some sort of grey fur, and ended in solid hooves. Okay, okay, I’m still dreaming. Try levitating, then. He tensed his legs, and tried to push off.
Nothing. Still stuck solidly to the ground. He strained again, gritting his teeth: either he’d float or wake up…
Instead, he felt his T-shirt rip, and a pair of extra limbs unfolded. He started up in panic, and flopped down hard again.
Ouch! He bit his lip when his head hit the ground. Exploring with his tongue, he felt two sharp canines protruding from his upper jaw, almost like - fangs. Dreams didn’t hurt like this; besides, the sun was too damn bright. He looked up, almost blinded; but something stretched from his back and, almost reflexively, shaded his eyes. Something black and leathery, with bony ribs. Something like - wings. Bat wings.
This time, he rose slowly and carefully to all fours. Don’t panic, don’t panic… He looked about hesitantly: the landscape looked perfectly normal, even vaguely familiar. But he didn’t.
From what he could see, his entire body was covered with grey fur, and two black wings drooped at his sides. A black horsetail, streaked with white, flicked behind him: he shivered at the sensation when it touched his flank. I’m Batpony. Either I have gone completely out of my mind , or I’m goddamn Batpony.
He shook his head, trying to clear his mind. No: you’re not Batpony. You’re Benjamin freaking Hengst, you lazy, blithering idiot. You better get your ass in gear, or you’re going to die here. With an effort, he managed to fold those clumsy wings up on his back. He kicked off the encumbering remains of his shorts, and, stepping gingerly, he started out of the hollow. A scrap of white caught his eye, in the grass where he had lain: a torn bit of paper, with the printed words,
PRINCIPIA SOM
Being, A Thest
to Drea
What they meant, what was missing, puzzled him; but there were more important matters now. He had to get out and find some sign of civilization - something. Somebody. He seemed to be on a small island, surrounded by marsh: he’d have to wade through that to get anywhere. He wasn’t about to try flying with wings he could barely control.
The next patch of dry land was about thirty yards away: one straight ravine led to the top of a hill, with another intersecting it halfway up. Fortunately, the mud was not too deep to cross, although his wings instinctively started flapping to keep him from sinking. At the top, he paused to take in his surroundings: more marsh on either side, and open water before him. He knew where he was: his hometown. The shoreline was much closer than before, though: the sea level must have risen since - how long ago?
Ben considered his options: west would lead him downtown - at least, where downtown used to be - and to the river. There seemed to be a causeway of some sort, or at least a chain of dry patches. East was deep marsh, probably impassable. South was Long Island Sound. West it was, then.
A song came to his memory: an ancient, scratchy record, from a collection he would never see again. Might as well have some traveling music…
“Rip van Winkle was a lucky man: Rip van Winkle went away, And slept for twenty happy years In the mountains, so they say - how lucky! Rip van Winkle had a lovely sleep, Deny it if you can: While his loss they were deploring, He was in the mountains snoring: Rip van Winkle was a lucky man!” *
*”Rip van Winkle Was a Lucky Man” (Jean Schwartz - Wm. Jerome [1901])
The causeway followed the old shoreline railbed: in fact, some dark stains showed where the ancient tracks had been. A few minutes’ walk should take him to the river.
Outside of gulls, terns, ducks, and an egret or two, Ben saw little sign of life: no rising thread of woodsmoke; no houses except a half-sunken brick ruin; no sound of any human activity. Were there any humans left at all, or was he just a lone monster, haunting the wilderness? The thought sent a shudder through his body.
A dip in the path, where some long-ago storm had washed the earth away, worried him: would he have to swim the gap? He wasn’t sure he could dog-paddle - pony-paddle - very well in this body.
Sure enough, there was a breach - and his heart jumped. A bridge - a bridge - crossed the gap. It was only a couple of logs with planks laid across them; but he gazed upon it as if it were a holy shrine.
Ben Hengst, bat-pony, was not alone in the universe.
Slowly, gingerly, as if it might vanish from under hoof, he stepped across onto the pathway again.
When he reached the area where the depot had once stood, he crossed over northward into the town. Again, not much to see except some crumbled ruins: but there was a narrow trail through the scrub that covered the old street. He peered at the packed dirt, and was almost convinced he could see some sign of hoofprints. Shod hoofprints. He turned west again toward the river.
The drawbridge had long since rusted away; but a few wooden pilings supported a dock of sorts. The river flowed unimpeded by highway overpasses or other obstructions, just as it had four hundred years before his own day.
He spotted something far upriver, moving slowly and deliberately in a familiar rhythm. Several minutes later, he could just make out the rise and fall of oars, and a figure bending to them. Very soon, he noticed the oarsman wasn’t human: it was a bright red pony with a white mane, its ears sticking out of a battered straw hat.
The scow was coming into hailing distance. Ben reflexively lifted one hoof to his mouth , and hollered “AHOY THERE!”: his voice seemed a bit younger than he remembered. The oarsman (oarspony, he corrected himself) lifted his head and craned to look.
“Ahoy yerself! What do ye want?”, came the reply.
“Could I get a lift somewhere?”
“Where to?”
Ben paused. He hadn’t really formed a clear plan: just keep walking until he reached civilization, or what passed for it here. “Anywhere there’s other peo- er, ponies.” His stomach began to growl: he hadn’t had breakfast yet, and he didn’t even know what was edible now.
There was a moment of awkward silence, as the other pony looked him over skeptically. “Goin’ down t’ marshes ’n’ cut some salt hay right now. Can ye manage a scythe?”
“I- I don’t know; but I can try. I just need to find somewhere I can get food and a place to sleep. I’ll be on my way to the next - er, - town as soon as I can. Could you help me, please?”
The other pony said nothing, but began to pull toward the dock. He ducked his head down into the boat, and came up with a coil of rope in his mouth. As he drifted closer, he shipped his oars, gave a toss of his head, and a loop spliced into the rope’s end settled over the upstream piling. Then, taking hold of the rope again with his teeth, he pulled the scow in, and wrapped the slack over a cleat in the stern. Turning around, he reached into the bow, and repeated the operation with the same easy skill.
“All right, hop in, young feller.” Ben stepped gingerly into the bow of the boat. His rescuer had a fringe of white beard under his muzzle, and pale blue eyes lined with wrinkles; on his haunch was a peculiar yellow marking, shaped like a sheaf of wheat. “Might as well get acquainted. Name’s Harvest Bounty: what’s yers, young’un?”
“Ben. Ben Hengst.”
“Odd name for a pony.” He looked Ben over appraisingly, noticing the torn T-shirt. “Mebbe ye batfolk do things different from us. Or are ye one of them - what was it - Newcomers?”
“Newcomers? Well, I just woke up here a couple of hours ago.”
“Aye, that’s it. Not many of ‘em come here. There was one arrived up the Pequot trail, ‘bout fifty year ago. A unicorn: didn’t seem quite right in the head t’me.” Harvest gave Ben another once-over. “But ye seem level-headed enough, far as I can see. Tell ye what: ye give me a hoof with that hay, and ye can get supper up t’ farm, and a bed fer the night. Mule London ain’t too far, and they’s probably more of you Newcomers down there. Deal?” He held out a hoof.
Ben extended his own, and touched Harvest’s tentatively: that seemed to be the pony equivalent of a handshake. “Deal.”
Harvest grinned, and picked up an earthen jug from the bottom of the scow, his hoof wedged into a large handle. “Best we have a drink on it. Ma’s best cider.” He pulled the cork out with his teeth, and laid it on the thwart beside him; then he raised the jug to his lips and tipped it up.
“Your mother’s still alive?” Ben blurted.
Harvest nearly spewed cider out of his nose. Laughing heartily, he wiped his lips, lowered the jug and set it down. “Heaven sakes, colt; I fergot ye were a greenhoof. Ma’s me wife Winesap: we been hitched for eighty years.” He shoved the jug over to Ben, who stuck his own hoof into the handle and took an awkward swig. It tasted like liquid sunshine, with a tart bite underneath.
“Eighty years?”, he gasped as he returned the jug; “Did you get married as a teenager?”
“I’ll be a hunderd ’n’ fifteen come August,” Harvest replied, “though I feel jest as spry as I was at eighty.” He corked the jug and put it back down; then he looked downriver. “Well, we ain’t gettin’ much done sittin’ here jawin’. Best get busy and hit the hay.” He chuckled at his own pun. “Cast off the bow, and I’ll get the stern line.”
Ben did his best to free the rope from its cleat and yank the splice off the piling, as his companion watched with dry amusement. Harvest made short work of the stern line, and settled down to his oars. Each handle had a loop of rope attached, through which he slipped his hooves, and he grasped the handles between hoof and pastern. A few strokes, and they were back in mid-river, heading toward the Sound.
The landscape opened up as they floated past the footings of the old railroad bridge: a wilderness of reeds and cat-tails, the air alive with shore birds. Occasionally, the serpentine head and neck of a cormorant broke the water’s surface, only to plunge back down a minute later. Neither of them said anything: Harvest was busy at the oars, and Ben was absorbed in thought. How long has it been since…? Why have humans turned into ponies? I’m not a farmer, or a blacksmith, or a potter, or anything practical: I’m a dreamer, really, and a sometimes actor. How am I going to make a living?
The scow finally scrunched to a stop on a muddy bank. A vast meadow of tall grass lay before them.
“Let’s haul ‘er up on shore and get to work.” Harvest grabbed the stern line, splashed into the shallows, and dragged the stern of the boat above the tide line. Ben did his best with the bow, although he suspected it would not meet his companion’s standards.
There were a pitchfork and two scythes lying in the stern. Harvest grabbed one, wedged its butt end under his right foreleg (his armpit, had he been human), and grasped a handle much like those on his oars. “Come on then, young ’un,” he said, stepping forward on three legs with deceptive ease.
Ben stared at the other scythe. He had always been left-hand - left-hoofed, and this might not be a good idea: but rather than inconvenience his host, he thrust the scythe under his armpit, grasped the handle, started forward -
And promptly buried his muzzle in the mud. It was sheer luck that he hadn’t slashed himself with that blade. The same might be said for Harvest, although for other reasons: he was laughing fit to bust, so much that tears were trickling down his face and dripping from his beard.
“All right, greenhoof,” he said when he had finally recovered his breath. “Ye were willin’ enough, and ye tried to keep yer word: I like t’ see that in a pony. Stow that scythe: I’ll do the cuttin’, and you pile it up in the boat.”
It was a weary afternoon’s work, as Harvest mowed down swathe after swathe, and Ben struggled to load forkful after forkful into the scow; his jaw and neck muscles protesting against the strain, and the sweat foaming on his flanks.
Finally, the work was done: they shared another draft of cider together, pushed the boat off shore, and started back upriver to home.
The journey upriver was slower, of course: Harvest calmly and tirelessly rowing, Ben resting in the bow, a fragrant mountain of fresh hay in the stern. Occasionally an otter or muskrat would emerge from the bank and plunge into the stream with a splash; overhead, a lone hawk circled, whistling once or twice. The sun hung low in the west now; and a drowsy peace hung over everything.
A large pasture lay around the next bend, with a small flock of sheep grazing, and half a dozen black and white cows reclining in it: a lichen-crusted stone fence marked its boundary, and a cornfield lay beyond. At the top of a low hill stood a low, rambling frame house and barn; a lazy drift of smoke rose from the chimney.
Ben was roused by the distant sound of barking, when a pair of dogs came rushing toward them. Harvest called out, “Mikey! Tillie! Mind yer manners: we got a guest here!” The dogs fell silent, and sat down with lolling tongues and wagging tails.
They tied up at another dock, after Harvest maneuvered the scow stern-on to the riverbank and shipped the oars for the last time. A two- wheeled cart sat nearby. They both debarked, pausing to wash their muddy hooves in the river (and Ben his muddy muzzle as well). Harvest pulled the pitchfork from the boat and remarked, “Go on up, Ben, and introduce yerself: I’ll get this load into the barn.” He began pitching the hay into the cart.
Ben walked slowly up the dirt path to the house; the dogs followed quietly at his heels. A pale green mare with a yellow-and-orange mane and tail was weeding an herb garden in front of the main door. She wore a sort of apron over her chest and forelegs: probably to keep the dirt off, as she frequently kneeled down to uproot some invading sprout.
“Good evening, ma’am,” he began; “My name’s Ben Hengst, and I hope you’ll be kind enough to let me stay here for the night.”
The mare rose to her hooves, and brushed a bit of dirt off her apron. “Anypony Pa brings along is welcome: otherwise, he wouldn’t have brought ye.”
“Thank you, ma’am. Am I by any chance addressing Ms. Winesap?”
She giggled at the name. “Heavens, no: that’s Mother. My name’s Three Sisters.” She turned her flank, and he could see a complicated mark there: a cornstalk with a vine twined about it, and a pumpkin at its base. “Jest let me finish this row, and I’ll show ye in.”
Mikey and Tillie had been sniffing curiously around his legs: he hoped they wouldn’t start sniffing at his-
A male voice rang out from around the corner. “Sis, ye finished yet? Ma needs a hoof with supper!”
“Hold yer horses, Bumper Crop: we got a guest here!”
A young stallion wandered into view: brown, with his father’s white mane and tail, and a tiny beard as well. On his flank was a different mark: a basket overflowing with produce. He looked at Ben, and his eyes narrowed. “Guest? Why, that’s one o’ them dark-“
“You shut yer muzzle, Bump! Don’t matter what Fallow told ye: Pa invited him, and he’s our guest! Go argue with Pa, if ye’re so inclined!” The stallion backed off, abashed: but he still gave Ben a pointed look. Then he pulled the latch-string open, and retreated into the house.
“Sorry ye had to hear that, Ben,” Three Sisters remarked as the door slammed to. “Bump’s been like that ever since his little brother ran away. He and Fallow Field was tight as two peas in a pod; but Fallow - I don’t know - he jest soured somehow.” She cast her eyes down. “Got to talkin’ agin griffins, batfolk, and the like, and then he jest run off. Broke Pa’s heart, too.
“But don’t mind him. Ma’s got bathwater heatin’: you and Pa clean yourselves up, and we’ll have us a good supper. Go on in.”
Ben walked hesitantly up to the door, knocked with his hoof, and pulled the latch-string with his teeth. Inside, it looked much like an early Colonial house: leaded casement windows; a formal parlor on one side of the entrance hall; a "keeping room" on the other, with a loom and spinning wheel in the corner. Oddly enough, all the floors were packed dirt.
A doorway beyond led to the kitchen: a large kettle was already hanging over the fire there, the first wisps of steam rising from its spout; a couple of covered pots were also heating. Before the kitchen hearth sat a large copper tub, a couple of buckets of water, a cake of brown soap, and a brush.
A bustle was heard from the pantry beyond, and an older mare entered with a bundle of towels draped over her back. She was the same pale green as her daughter; but her mane and tail were a faded burgundy, streaked with white. She started slightly when she saw Ben. “Mercy sakes! Ye gave me a turn there: I didn’t know we had visitors.” She regarded him with the same shrewd humor as her husband. “What’s yer name, stranger?”
“Ben Hengst, ma’am; but you can call me just Ben.”
“Well, Jest Ben, I’m Winesap.” She laid the towels on the table nearby. Her mark, thus revealed, was a cross-cut apple, with the core and seeds forming a five pointed star, and a golden drop flowing from it. “Ye’ll be wantin’ a wash, by the look of ye. Pa, Sis, and Bump are busy bringin’ in the stock; so ye get first crack.”
“Oh, I don’t want to impose-“
“Nonsense. Now get that rag off and wash up.” Ben paused: how was he going to get his T-shirt over his wings? Winesap was already emptying the buckets into the tub, and going for the kettle.
“I- I’m not sure I can. You see, I didn’t have wings when I put it on, and-“
“Land alive, a Newcomer!” Her eyes brightened. “I know ye folks have some stories to tell. When I was a filly, they was a couple o’ ponies came into my pa’s tavern, one of ‘em a pegasus; and they talked about an Inner Net, and high-bred carts, and all sorts o’ things, and-“
She paused, and regained her composure. “But never ye mind. Let’s get that thing off of ye first.” She plucked a knife from off its rack, and advanced on him, the blade in her teeth. Ben stood frozen, while she deftly slit the back of the shirt, and its remnants collapsed at his hooves. Despite all his efforts at self-control, he couldn’t help shuddering a little afterwards.
Winesap then calmly took the kettle from the fire, and poured it into the tub. “That’ll take the chill off. I’ll fetch some more for the rest.” She retreated into the pantry, and he heard a door open and shut.
Ben climbed reluctantly into the tub, and sat down. He remembered Harvest’s prowess with oars and scythe, and grasped the brush between hoof and pastern. Okay: wet the brush, rub it on the soap, and scrub.
He was surprised at how flexible pony limbs were, compared to horses of his own world: he managed to scrub his own back, with only a few places he couldn’t reach. At last he climbed out of the tub. He had to resist the impulse to shake himself off like a dog: instead he grabbed a towel, flung it over himself, and rolled about until he was fairly dry.
Winesap returned with a full kettle, and hung it on the crane above the fire. “Ye look a sight better now, Jest Ben. They’s a guest room in the back wing: used to be Fallow’s, but- “ She broke off short, and gestured toward a doorway behind. “Well, lamps need lightin’; and supper needs fixin’: we’ll call ye when we’re ready.”
A hallway led off from the kitchen, with rooms on either side. The summer twilight was dim; but his eyes soon adjusted to the light. Farther down, on his right, Ben saw one that showed no signs of recent occupancy: a spartan chamber, with only a bedstead and a washstand. This, he guessed, had been Fallow Field’s room.
To his left, a glimmer of light and motion caught his eye: a small looking-glass hung in the hall. This was his first clear glimpse of his own reflection.
The face he saw was grey, with wide-set amber eyes (he looked almost crosseyed, focusing on the mirror); a short muzzle, with two small fangs sticking out on either side; a faint black scruff of a beard, instead of the grey shag he had before. Above a black mane with a white stripe sat two tufted ears. Frankly, he looked like an equine version of a college student: he must have lost nearly forty years since yesterday.
Okay, this is my face now. Get used to it. He turned and entered the bedroom: not much there, except a covered chamberpot he hadn’t noticed before, under the bedstead. A patterned woolen coverlet lay over the bed: the woven legend W.S. - 317 was visible in one corner.
Ben partially shut the chamber door, and lay down upon the bed: the ropes under the mattress creaked slightly beneath him. The day’s exertions had left him weary, and the bath had relaxed him: best to wait until he was called to supper.
He drifted for a bit between waking and sleep: the raised voices in the kitchen beyond were irritating, but unimportant. He thought he saw the mysterious winged unicorn of his last dream, and tried to-
A knock on the door sent him awake, heart pounding. “Ben? Supper’s ready: come on!”
He roused himself, tumbled off the bed, and struggled to his hooves. A glow of candlelight greeted him from the kitchen, and he followed Three Sisters in.
The great table had been moved to the center of the floor, with low benches on either side: a couple of stools stood at each end, with Harvest standing behind one. Winesap was busily doling out food into wooden bowls; Three Sisters was doing likewise, and setting mugs of cider at each place. Bumper Crop stood silently by, glancing darkly at the new guest; and a couple of other ponies (“hired hooves”, Ben supposed they were called) waited patiently.
At Harvest’s nod, they all took a seat; save for the mares, who set all the bowls on the table, and then sat down. All ponies bowed their heads, so Ben did likewise.
Winesap spoke the grace:
“Sun and rain and mother Earth, Let all ponies know your worth. While we here travail and toil, We are nourished by your soil. From Earth we come, to Earth we go: Heav’n and Earth ordain it so.”
To which all responded, “Amen.”
They fell to the first course, which was a salad of lettuce, clover, and fescue, enlivened by carrots and cucumbers, and flavored with cider vinegar. Then there was a stew of corn, beans, and squash: Ben could taste some sea salt, and a bit of chili pepper. Finally, Winesap brought out a strawberry-rhubarb pie, sweetened with honey.
The meal ended, everypony rose and went off to bed: Harvest and Winesap remained, and gestured Ben to sit down again.
When they were alone, Winesap refilled all three mugs. Harvest cleared his throat.
“We hear batfolk like yerself have some power over dreams.” He pushed Ben's mug toward his guest. “Now I know ye’re a Newcomer and a tenderhoof; but ye’re the best chance we have of gettin’ Fallow home.”
Ben was rather fuddled with cider already; but he drank it anyway. “I’ll try,” he said: “I’m not sherry - not very sure that I can do anything, but I’ll try.” He paused. “Why dirt floors?” The question came out of nowhere, as far as he knew.
Harvest chuckled. “Grandpa built this place, most of it. He said a pony’s hooves had t’keep in touch with the Earth: that’s our strength. But let me tell ye jest what happened with Fallow.”
“It was about five year ago, when we went down to market in Mule London. They was a couple o’ ponies hangin’ round dressed in robes: I didn’t like the look of ‘em, I tell ye. Me and Bumper was busy unloadin’ the cart and settin’ up the stall; and when we turned around agin, Fallow’d wandered off.
“Now Bump was ‘bout to rush out after him; but I told him Fallow was a clever colt, and old enough t’ look out fer himself.” Harvest paused, and looked Ben in the eye. “He’d be about yer age now: he was kinda weedy, and a bit of a dreamer. I guess you sorta reminded me o' him: which may be part o’ why I picked ye up.” He sighed, and looked pensively at his mug.
“Anyhow, he did come back afore the market was over; but he didn’t seem quite right - a little too quiet. A couple days later, he said he’d been invited to a ‘fellowship meetin’ ‘, as he called it. It was at the Farmers’ Hall, jest upriver; so we didn’t see any harm in it.
“Fallow came home pretty late; and they was a light in his eyes I hadn’t seen afore. We asked him how the meetin’ went, but he jest shrugged and said it was okay. We kept some supper for him; but he said he’d already et up at the Hall, and headed t’ bed.
“He was mighty quiet the next day, but did his chores all right. Then a couple weeks later, he went off to another meetin’; and when we asked him agin, afterwards, he got mighty short with us: said it was none of our business. Well, that fired me up, and we laid down the law as how them ‘meetin’s’ was over, far as he was concerned.
“He didn’t say nothin’ the next day, nor the day after that: but one day in the field, we saw a griffin flyin’ overhead with a basket o’ fish, and Fallow jest got madder 'n a nest o' hornets. He said they was ‘unnatural’, and ‘abominations’, and how ponies ‘d never be safe until they was all gone: griffins, dragons, changelin’s… even batfolk, beggin’ yer pardon. He claimed that was th’ only way we could ‘return to th’ image of God’.”
Harvest took another swig of cider. “I told him in no un-certain terms, that he wasn’t too old for me t’ take a switch t’ him; but he jest spat out a curse and trotted home.
“When we’d finished our work in the field, I went to speak t’ him, but he was long gone. We galloped up t’ the Hall, and they was nopony there: we asked around the neighborin’ farms, and they hadn’t seen him.
“Ma was in tears, and I weren’t too far behind. We ain’t heard a peep ‘bout Fallow since then. He was our last and youngest: most the other ones got hitched, and moved to new land. I had hoped he ’n’ Bump would run the farm after I pass on. Maybe - maybe, ye could track him down in dreams, and convince him to come back?”
The naked yearning both old ponies radiated was too much for Ben’s confused senses. He wanted to help, but how could he? He’d grown up in relative comfort and privilege: his chief mission before had been to entertain an audience: was he fit to rescue another soul?. He was deathly afraid of disappointing his hosts, who had shown him such kindness; yet the task seemed insurmountable.
You’re here to stay. Even if you fail at this, you’ll have tried: which is more than you can say for yourself otherwise. Ben gathered up his faltering strength, and rose to his hooves.
“All right, I’ll try. I’m probably going to screw up, but I’ll try.” Harvest and Winesap both wrapped their hooves around him in a hug: he hadn’t felt such loving warmth in ages.
“Bless ye, Ben,” the old stallion said quietly. He roused himself again, and remarked, “Well we’d best be off to bed: it’s market day tomorra, and we need t’ get an early start. Get as much sleep as ye can, now.” He retreated back to the hall,
Winesap began extinguishing the candles; and Ben, apprehensively and somewhat unsteadily, went off to bed.
Ben wandered through a cityscape devoid of people. The buildings, however, were as he remembered them from his dreams: the clatter of his hooves echoed for blocks.
Funny thing, though: everything seemed clearer than it had before. The details of architecture remained constant; and the words on the signs, although not quite comprehensible, were distinct in every stroke. A ragged, gently undulating crack in the sidewalk seemed to lead him on.
At the top of a hill stood the apartment building where he had lived several decades before. He climbed up the fire stairs in the back, and entered the floor below his own. The large, ornate public room was empty, except for its tables and chairs; so he turned to the small stairway that led up to his own level.
The apartment was barely furnished, except for the carpet and couches in the front room: the walls and ceiling were rather shabby, with cracks and missing plaster. Had he left anything behind in his old room? The door was open, and he walked in.
An unmade bed; a dresser; an armchair and a nightstand: that was all, except for a scrap of paper lying on his pillow. On it, in letters more vivid than he had seen before, was written:
FOCUS, DUMMY!
Damn! He shouldn’t have come up here: this was old, dead history; and there was something important he had to do in the present. He glided down the fire stairs, and back to the street. He galloped towards a square downtown, where a statue of a winged unicorn -
A rooster’s crow tore his dream to shreds.
Dawn light came through the partially opened casement; and sure enough, a knock on his door. “Ben? You up yet? Get some breakfast, ‘cause Pa’s leavin’ in a couple hours!”
A medley of aromas drifted in from the kitchen: baking, stewing, and - was that eggs frying? He rolled out of bed and onto his hooves, despite a slight headache, and hurried in to breakfast.
Most of the household were already busy at the table: there were mugs of cider - much tempered with water, this time - and trenchers of corn porridge, sweetened with fresh milk, honey, and dried berries. But the crowning glory were omelets, laden with peppers, onions, and mushrooms - and cheese.
The trenchers and mugs were cleared away; and a pot of tea (mint, with a touch of chamomile and other herbs) was doled out into earthen cups. These were sipped more slowly, each pony cradling the cup between their forehooves. Ben savored his tea, and reflected on last night’s dream - and the mission to which he had so rashly committed. Had it been a drunken impulse: or was something deeper at work?
A feeling of congestion in his bowels seemed more important than dreams right now: he excused himself, bolted out the side door of the kitchen, and found the privy out back, near the woodshed.
A few minutes later (the less said of which, the better), he emerged into the side yard, where chickens were hunting for worms and bits of grain. Winesap was waiting for him, with some canvas draped over her back.
“Thought ye might need somethin’ for travelin’, Ben,” she remarked. “Made these saddlebags for Bump, years ago: but you might have some use for ‘em now. Me ’n’ Pa put a little somethin’ in ‘em to keep ye for a while.” She winked slyly. “Don’t tell Bump, though.” He bowed his head as she slipped them over. They were a little uncomfortable over his wings, so he wiggled them out and settled them over the bags. A strap with a simple ring buckle draped over his chest, and was easily adjusted with a tug of his teeth.
Harvest and Bumper were out front, harnessed to a large wagon, laden with baskets of fruit and vegetables; there was a bundle of fancy woolen fabrics as well.
“There ye are, son,” Harvest said heartily. “Time’s a-wastin’, and the cargo ain’t gettin’ any fresher. Best be on our way now.” They headed down to a path near the riverbank, and trotted southward.
Their way led them past more fields of corn, wheat, and oats, with the “hired hooves” already at work; beyond lay patches of woodland, loud with birdsong. In the distance, the chimney smoke from a neighboring farm could just be seen. Harvest and Bump kept up a steady pace, while Ben trotted alongside, and hoped for the best.
They soon reached the main road, which followed the old I-95: its concrete and asphalt had been covered with a more pony-friendly layer of earth, and plank bridges had been built on the surviving footings of their predecessors. The dust was slightly irritating, as were the flies; but the travelers simply snorted and flicked their tails.
An hour or so later, they spotted another couple of wagons a few hundred yards ahead. “Looks like Cornsilk ’n’ Turnip Top ‘re off t’ market, too,” Harvest commented. “Nephews o’ mine,” he said to Ben. "Let’s ketch up, and chew the clover together, shall we? HI THERE!,” he shouted, and the other wagons came to a stop. They freshened their pace, while Ben struggled to keep up.
By the time they reached their companions, he was puffing and blowing; Harvest and Bumper had barely broken a sweat. Fortunately, one of the other ponies, a white stallion with a green mane and tail - Turnip Top, apparently, by the mark on his flank - had shrugged off his collar, and was rooting around in the back of his wagon. While Harvest unhitched himself, he pulled out a large jug, and offered it to the company. It wasn’t cider, but a slightly vinegary brew, flavored with herbs and a touch of honey: “switchel”, they called it.
Whatever it was, Ben was grateful for the refreshment, as for the welcome pause while Harvest chatted with his nephews. Their conversation revolved around the weather, the quality of their harvests, the health of family members, the price of crops, and other matters, while the morning sun rose higher in the sky. Finally, they nodded, stepped back into harness, and headed on together.
After a couple of hours, they reached the top of a rise, and saw the Thames below, busy with traffic. The road curved off to the left, beside the crumbling remains of the old bridge; to the south, on this side of the river, Ben saw a thick stand of forest, with the top of a stone obelisk looming over it: old Fort Griswold, and the Groton Monument. On the far bank, a few familiar buildings remained intact: a couple of churches (damn, he remembered performing in one of them), the old custom house, and, to his great surprise, the Shaw mansion. The rest of the city was made up of low brick and frame buildings, many of them built upon the lower storeys of the old city.
Down at the riverbank stood the ferry dock, where lay a broad-beamed, flat-bottomed boat. Two large paddle wheels were housed on either side, each with a burly stallion standing beside them: another pony waited at a large steering oar. The sign at the dock read:
Harvest and his nephews paid their fare to a unicorn at the gate, plus a copper for Ben, and joined the passengers on deck. When the boat was full, the cry came to cast off: ropes were thrown; the two stallions planted their forehooves on the deck and began to work the treadles with their hind legs; the helmspony grabbed the oar, and off they churned across the river.
The ferry finally tied up at the wharf, and all disembarked just below Bank Street: the stallions at the wheels moved casually to the other side of their treadles, and the helmspony carried the steering oar to the other end of the vessel. Ben tagged along with the others toward the market square, under the old Soldiers’ and Sailors’ Monument. There Harvest, Bump, and the nephews began setting up their stalls, while Ben observed the scene.
Around the square were shopfronts of all sorts: printers, pewterers, bakers, and taverns stood cheek by jowl; the sidewalks in front had streetlamps - honest-to-god streetlamps. His eye, however, was caught by a placard reading ARRIVALS, and pointing toward the church he had seen before.
He turned to Harvest, who was laying out the woolens on a table. “Well, I guess this is where we part ways,” he said with a cheerfulness he did not feel. “I’ll try my best to find Fallow and get him back: I hope it’ll be sooner rather than later.”
Harvest gave Ben a kindly look. “Ye promised, and that’s all we need. Heavens’ll look after ye, I know.” They touched hooves once more, and Ben plodded up the street to the church.
It was much as he remembered, although rather run down. The original doors had been replaced long ago, and broken panes in the windows had been patched over. A side door stood open, so he entered hesitantly.
“Hello?” His voice echoed through the sanctuary: the pews were long gone, as was the carpeting. Some scaffolding and a pile of timbers showed that repairs were still being made, though. “Anyone there? I’m new here, and it says “Arrivals”, so I thought -"
A pleasant, matronly voice answered from the back hall. “Hello! Come on in: I’ve been busy with the accounts, and didn’t hear you at first.” A yellow unicorn mare with a blue mane peered into the church, and gestured with her head towards the back. Ben walked up the side aisle and followed her in.
“Pardon us if we’re a bit messy, but the roof beams need work. The carpenters have left for lunch with everypony else, and I’m holding down the fort, so to speak. The last few years have been rather lean, as far as arrivals have been concerned.” She smiled apologetically., as they entered a small office. “I’m Welcome Wagon, by the way: what’s your name, sir?”
“Ben. Ben Hengst.” She levitated a rather large book over to a desk, where a quill stood in an inkwell. The quill then rose in the air, surrounded by a golden glow, and scribbled his name on the page.
“Age?”
He paused for a moment. “Um: I was in my fifties a few days ago, but now…”
She smiled once more. “From your looks, I’d say about twenty.” The pen scribbled again. “Place of arrival?”
“Mystic: I used to live there.”
“How odd! We haven’t had any arrivals from there for at least fifty years; still less a thestral. Still, there’s always a first time.” Scribble. “Occupation?”
Ben paused a little longer this time. ”I used to volunteer at the Seaport library: but, other than that, and local theater, I’d have to call myself ‘self-unemployed’.” He grinned wryly.
“Well, they do need some helping hooves over at the Library.” Scribble, scribble. “Have you eaten yet?”
“I had breakfast this morning with some farm ponies: they brought me here. As for lunch -“ He remembered the saddlebags, and stuck his muzzle in one side to check. There was a package wrapped in flatbread. “Well, I guess I’m okay for that.” He pulled it out, and bit in: clover, lettuce, tomato, and cheese. Not bad.
“All right, Mr. Hengst,” Welcome said. “I’ll check up at the Library. Finish your lunch, and we’ll see what Stacks has to say.” She walked off down the hall, and left him to munch and think.
A library job isn’t too bad, I suppose: time at least to do a bit of research as well. I hope the pay is enough to live on, though. On a hunch, Ben checked the other saddlebag, and drew out a small sack: inside were a hoof-full of silver coins. Oh, he realized. That’s why they didn’t want me to say anything to Bumper Crop…
Hoofsteps clattered in the hall, and he dropped the purse back into his bag. Welcome Wagon returned, wearing a small flowered hat. “All ready, Mr. Hengst? Let’s pay a visit.”
They crossed the street, and started uphill. Out of the corner of his eye, Ben spotted two figures lurking in a nearby alley: ponies in long, hooded grey robes. They glanced at him, and murmured to each other; then they hurried off into a back lane.
A few blocks later, they came to the Library: another old survivor, squat, grey, and Romanesque. On the hill above, where the ancient courthouse had stood, was a low brick building, with a statue of a donkey in front of it.
The Library was dim and cool inside, a welcome change from the summer heat. Another unicorn - an old, blue-green stallion with a grey mane - stood behind the front desk. Welcome Wagon made a little curtsy, and he nodded back.
“Mr. Stacks,” she began; “I hear you have an opening for an assistant. By a fortunate circumstance, this young pony used to work in a library before he arrived.” She turned to Ben. “May I present Mr. Hengst.”
Ben gave a little bow: Stacks stood silent, with a curious expression on his face. Was there something wrong?
“Hengst… Hengst…,” he muttered absently, and peered in Ben’s face; then his eyes lit up. “Ben? Good to see you again! I should have known you’d turn up at a library.” He paused. “Phil O’Donnel: remember me?”
“Remember? I just saw you a few days ago at the Seaport…” Oh. Oh. It took Ben a moment to realize what he had said. “When did you come over, then?”
Phil - Stacks - grew pensive. “It’s been about sixty-five years: I arrived as a youngster, like you are now. They’d already salvaged much of the Seaport library long ago; and I offered my help in cataloging and conserving the contents. They’re in the vaults now, protected by a stasis spell.
“But first, let’s get you settled in. As a thestral, you’ll probably be up late; so how does a night position suit you? It’s basically security work; but you can do some filing and other chores. It’s only about two silver a week, but the Arrivals Aid Society can supplement that until you get on your hooves. Deal?”
“Deal.” They touched hooves. “You start tomorrow at six p.m. Meanwhile, Welcome,” he nodded to Ms. Wagon, ”will get you registered at Town Hall and fixed up with a place to stay. Till then.”
Mule London’s town hall turned out to be the brick building across the street, guarded by the bronze donkey. A small flowerbed surrounded it; but Ben approached close enough to read the inscription on the statue’s base:
PATIENT BURDEN Died AE 132 This Memorial Was Erected by Public Subscription At the Request of the Foals of the Survivors Society AE 235 “ON OUR BACKS, WE BEAR THE FUTURE”
Registration was rather like the DMV, although with shorter lines: forms to be filled in triplicate (the unicorn scribes having mastered the skill of controlling three quills at once); his signature, or at least his mark, to be added to each (it was awkward holding the quill in his teeth, but he managed); and finally a brief physical examination. Seals were stamped, documents tied up with red tape: he was now officially a citizen of Mule London.
The Arrivals Aid Society clerk, poker-faced, scanned each paper carefully, before depositing a small pouch on the counter.
“Allowance, one silver, fifteen coppers per week. There will be a monthly review to assess your situation. Welcome to Mule London.” Ben dropped the poke into his saddlebag, on the other side from his secret cache, and accompanied Welcome Wagon to the exit.
“Now, you’ll need lodgings,” she said brightly. “There’s a boarding house a few blocks from here, that’s good for new arrivals: they only charge one silver a week, including meals, and it’s quite respectable. Mrs. Cake -“
Ben pulled up short. “Mrs. Cake?” He just barely kept his composure, although inwardly he was laughing hysterically. “Is her first name Evadne, by any chance?”
“No, it’s Journey: why do you ask?” she said, looking extremely puzzled.
Ben pulled himself together. “Sorry: just a wild guess. Lead on.”
The boarding house was typical of Mule London: an old cement and brick understorey, with a frame superstructure. On top of the roof was a small penthouse, with a “widow’s walk” around it. Beside the door was a painted placard:
CAKE HOUSE Lodgings and Meals Inquire Within NO SOLICITORS TORCHIES, THIS MEANS YOU!
“Torchies? What are those?” Ben asked.
Welcome Wagon frowned. “They call themselves ‘Torchbearers’, and sometimes ‘Repentants’: they started showing up about thirty-five years ago. They hang around places where foals or new arrivals might be, and try to recruit them. They wear these robes - “ Ben’s guts began to sink. “But never mind them.” She pulled on the bell rope beside the door. “Mrs. Cake? Journey? You have a new lodger!”
Above, the penthouse door opened, and a stout, purple pegasus mare with a yellow mane looked down on them. She wore a hat much like Welcome Wagon’s, but with a few feathers stuck in it. “All right, dear, I heard ye!” She fluttered down to the street beside them, and gave Ben the once-over. “You don’t look like trouble, anyway. Got yer rent in front?” Ben pulled out the pouch he’d been given at Town Hall: she took out the silver, and deposited it in an apron she wore over her chest. “All right, come in.”
A small entrance hall led to a dining room on one side. On the other, one door opened on a small parlor; another revealed a ramp. They followed Mrs. Cake to the upper floor, where small chambers lined either side of the hallway. She paused at number 7, and fished a key out of her apron.
“Here y’ are.” A spartan room, much like the farmhouse, but without any homey touches: a tiny fireplace stood in the corner, and a small cupboard hung on the wall; the coverlet on the bed was a coarse, drab weave. There was a sash window, with proper panes; but that did not improve the atmosphere much. “Chamber pot’s under there, and the privy’s at the end of the hall, in the washroom. Supper’s at five: see ye at the table.” Mrs. Cake presented him with the key, and clattered off downstairs.
“Now that you’re settled, I’ll bid you good-day,” Welcome remarked. “If you need any more assistance, you know where to find me.” She followed Mrs. Cake down the ramp.
Alone again, Ben considered his options. His second day in a strange new world: he had been extremely lucky to find someone who knew him, and had given him employment: that in itself would have been a comfortable existence. But he had pledged himself to a quest, based on a heartfelt appeal: he couldn’t go back on that. Had he been religious, he would have prayed: as it was, he could only hope.
It was still early afternoon. Ben stowed his room key safely in his saddlebag, and trotted back down to the market square: Harvest Bounty and the rest were still busy selling their produce. He briefly thought of talking to them again, but he had already said his farewells.
He spent the afternoon touring the town and checking the shops: two and a half coppers later, he had a toothbrush, a few candles, and, on impulse, a newspaper: that would do for now. He paused to gaze out at the harbor: white sails flocking in and out, and the hulk of Ledge Light in the distance.
A clock chimed two, then three, then four. He climbed back up to Cake House, and opened the door to his room. Removing his saddlebags, he stowed them and their contents in the cupboard and latched it; then headed for the washroom.
He ran a washcloth under the tap - thank heavens for running water! That, and a scrap of soap soon wiped away the worst of the day’s dust and sweat: he dried himself with the roller towel beside the sink. As he looked in the mirror, he noticed his pupils had narrowed to cat-like slits in the light of day.
Back to his room: he sat down on the bed and thought. His brief excursion had not settled any of his doubts: in fact, it had focused them. Who were these “Torchbearers”? Did they have anything to do with Fallow Field’s alienation and flight? Who, or what, was behind them? Could one single person do anything to counter them? The questions kept repeating themselves in his head, without answer.
The jangling of a dinner bell roused him from his thoughts. He heard a few hoofsteps in the hall, and more commotion downstairs. He left his room, and clattered down the ramp.
Four other lodgers stood beside the benches at the table: two earth ponies, one unicorn, and a rather morose griffin. Supper was plain, with a perfunctory grace: a simple hay-and tomato salad (the griffin abstained), pea soup with potatoes and carrots, and a slab of bread. Ben noticed the griffin glancing at Mrs. Cake. She nodded, and produced a chunk of smoked fish, which the lodger shredded into his soup. So they have a non-vegetarian option, he thought: I’ll have to ask her about that. He took a sip from the tankard of weak cider beside him.
The meal over (there was no dessert, except, he would find, on Sundays), the company dispersed again. Mrs. Cake, one of the earth ponies, and the griffin, retreated into the parlor: the other two headed upstairs. After a moment of decision, he followed them back to his room.
Alone again in his room, Ben pulled the newspaper out from his saddlebags and began to read. Might as well occupy the hours before bed, and perhaps learn more about this town - and this world.
The Mule London Weekly Gazette was a single folded sheet, densely packed with columns of type. No illustrations, save a few crude stock cuts, much like two centuries before his own time. Much of the content was commercial: the arrival of vessels from other ports, with lists of their cargo; announcements of new goods for sale; and current market prices. Interspersed were little truisms and jokes that would have been internet memes in his own day. A column of “Telegraphic Messages”, from as far afield as Boston and New York, intrigued him. So we have some form of telecommunication, then.
A small advertisement caught his eye as well:
“Tail Wind offers a Flying Academy for Young & Arrived Pegasi, Griffins, Etc. Five coppers per week: inquire at the sign of the Golden Quill.”
Ben took note of this for future reference.
What captured his attention most, however, were a few personals searching for lost colts and fillies. He did not see Fallow Field’s name among them. Perhaps Harvest and his family had made their plea some years ago: after it had gone unanswered, they must have regretfully stopped spending precious money upon a hopeless cause. It was only when I arrived that they started to hope again.
He read and reread the paper, while the summer evening lengthened outside; turning the same questions over and over as before, and coming up with no new answers. Outside, a pony carried a long pole with a flaming wick from lamp to lamp, and lit them. It was hard for Ben to read now, although the room seemed as bright as ever. He dimly remembered something about rod (or were they cone?) cells in the retina: one type was responsible for night vision, and the other for sharp focus and color perception. Batponies must have dark-adapted eyes, then.
There were a tinderbox and fire-striker in the chimney corner; but he’d read all there was to read right now, and there was no use wasting a candle. He lay down upon the bed, then, and composed himself for sleep .
It was a large, public space: a mall, a convention center, and hotel, rolled into one. An antique and curiosity shop tempted his fancy: rare records; an ornate and exotic sword; strange musical instruments. No one was there: why not claim them for his own? He’d leave some compensation, of course -
“There you are!” A voice interrupted his covetous thoughts. “What took you so long, Bat Boy?”
He turned to face the mocking voice. Another pony stood before him: a batpony like himself, pale blue, with a mane and tail like glacier ice, and piercing orange eyes.
“W-who are you?” he managed to stammer out.
She grinned, and a drill sergeant’s hat appeared on her head. “Your worst nightmare, maggot. Drop and give me twenty!”
“Twenty?”
“Wingups, you clodhopper! NOW!”
In a daze, Ben spread his wings, tucked in his forelegs, and complied. It didn’t seem to involve any physical strain; but the shock and humiliation was discomfort enough. When he finished, he heard the other pony giggling hysterically.
“Okay, that’s enough,” she gasped: the hat had vanished. “Welcome to the Dreamworld, kid. My name’s Jackie - just Jackie, far as you’re concerned. I’ve been around here for a while, and I like to meet the newbies and show them the ropes.
“You’re going to need a lot of help, kid: barely one day here, and you’ve managed to get roped into a quest. What were you thinking? No, don’t answer that,” she continued as Ben opened his mouth; “You’re new, and confused; somepony helps you out, then tells you a sob story; you don’t want to be ungrateful, yada yada yada…” She gestured dismissively with one hoof. “Old news. My job is to get you in shape for all that: show you the basics of dreamwalking; how to find out what’s bugging a dreamer; how to steer them the right way; how to defend yourself against the Darkness -“
“The Darkness? What’s that?”
“You’ll have to face it sometime or other: it’s like the mother of nightmares, and pretty nasty. You might want to check with Alex about that - if she hasn’t got herself killed again.” Jackie rolled her eyes and grimaced.
“Anyway, you ought to have a home base: somewhere in the Dreamland you can call your own. Makes it easier to navigate. You might as well start here.” She gestured to an open elevator nearby. Let’s go up and see what there is.”
There were no floor buttons within: just UP and DOWN. Ben pushed the first one, and the door slid closed. A few moments later, a chime sounded, and it opened upon a carpeted hallway. Out of many doors, one stood ajar.
“This must be yours, then.” Jackie gestured for Ben to enter.
It was not your typical hotel room. Hotel rooms didn’t usually have twenty foot ceilings, chandeliers, or stained glass windows, or enough bookshelves to house a small library. Added to that were a window seat and an overstuffed sofa, plus a number of antiques out of his memories.
“Nice taste you got, kid,” was all she commented.
“Now, first thing you’ve got to learn is how to get here without all that falling asleep business. Look at that door,” she pointed back at the entrance. “Take it all in: the wood, the paneling, the doorknob, everything.” Ben stared and concentrated. “Read it like a book: fix it in your memory. When you need to enter the Dreamland, close your eyes and envision that door: keep concentrating until it becomes real. That’s your way in.”
Ben stared harder: he noticed how the grain made peculiar patterns in the wood; the odd little moldings; the baroque trim on the knob and plate. He closed his eyes and imagined it before him, just as it was. Remember this: do not forget it.
After repeating this exercise several times, he announced, “Okay: I think I’ve got it.”
“Great. Meet me here tomorrow night, midnight sharp: we’ll get down to business then.”
Ben remembered suddenly. “Um, I’ve got work tomorrow night. It’s not much, but -“
Jackie snorted. “No problem. Time doesn’t mean much here anyway: You can get your training, and get your chores done before morning. Midnight sharp, remember.” She waved a hoof and was gone.
Alone again, in these magical surroundings, he examined the room again. A flash of yellow among the books caught his eye: a sticky note on one of the spines.
READ ME.
Pulling it carefully from the shelf, Ben carried it over to the window seat and opened it: another piece of paper fluttered to the floor. He picked it up and read:
My dear little pony: We have taken the precaution of providing this copy, lest the physical book should fail to cross over to thy world. Read and learn: we wish thee success in thy endeavors. - L.
Ben turned to the title page:
PRINCIPIA SOMNIUM Being, a Thestral’s Guide To Dreams and Their Mastery by Prof. Ebony Flight, R.E.A.* Respectfully dedicated to Her Royal Highness PRINCESS LUNA
Luna? The name seemed familiar. This ought to be interesting, though. Ben sat back and began to read.
