> Simulacrum
>  by Rocket Lawn Chair
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

> Failed Dare
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------


***



Back then, the ponies of King Sombra’s Empire thought of Old Merry as a heretic, but also old enough to be effectively harmless, and so they simply left him alone to his crude toy-making and impure thoughts, whittling away with rheumatic hooves and senile magic. By all common reckoning his toy shop was abandoned, though a lamp was still lit by the door, and the windows remained polished, and a friendly “Open” sign hung in the window. And sometimes, if you spared a passing glance, you might spy the old toymaker himself, bent like an aged tree over his workbench while unhealthy-looking wood chips flew from his most recent piece, perhaps seen in his addled mind’s-eye as a toy soldier or model train. He mostly kept to himself, which made him that much easier to erase.

“A crazy old stallion lives in there, pay no mind.” The local wisdom gradually shifted active avoidance to unconscious ignorance, to the point where Old Merry’s shop remained nearly unnoticed until the moment you crossed its threshold. It might give you pause to think, how this odd toy shop had simply sprung out of the gap in your memory, and how many other empty spaces swarmed the avenues of the city beyond. A scab would hastily form over the wounded thought so it wouldn’t fester in your mind and cause infection.

Foals learned early on that they shouldn’t go into Old Merry Onette’s toy shop, (and yes, somehow “Merry” was a stallion’s name). There were much better toy shops to visit in Sombra’s Empire, such as Novel Wonders’, or Sweet Dreams’ (more of a candy store). But, if presented with a dare, a precocious foal would poke his head into Old Merry’s. They’d hear the bell tingle above the door. They’d take in the vast array of puppets and figurines carved by the ancient unicorn’s shoddy magic—a sight unsettling enough by itself. Engage their curiosity enough, and they might venture further in, and find—aside from the poor craftsponyship of the creations—that the place was remarkably well-kept. Dusted and polished daily, floors swept of wood chips, figurines in presentable condition, with all the attention to cleanliness that a gardener might have to keep his garden free of weeds.

Old Merry would turn from his workbench, wagging his silver whiskers in surprise. He might have a pipe in his mouth, collecting smoke in a burgeoning cloud around his head, in which case he’d pluck it from his lips like a daisy, using the weak yellow magic that emanated from his half-horn, tap out the charred tobacco against his wooden leg where a well-burnt crater blossomed between the grains.

“You don’t have to go slinking around in the shadows, my ears still work and so does my doorbell.” He’d speak very broadly in a rust-coated croak like the groan of a door in an empty castle. There were plainly too many years in his voice, and he took great pains to use it.

“Would you believe you’re my first customer in a long while? Ah, not surprised, that’s okay. Let me know if you see anything y’like.”

Sometimes darers would pose an extra challenge: “For another bit, you have to stay in there for five minutes and hear him talk.”

Of course, you’d be a scaredy-cat to refuse.

Old Merry would heave his frail, decaying form around so you’d get a good look at the pony he’d become. With his eye patched over and his white mane thinner than his wispy smoke, his horn cleanly clipped off halfway to the tip, his bulky brown overcoat that warmed his bones because his thin skin no longer did the trick—it made some sense why his shop looked so clean. It was as if he’d absorbed all the dust, all the scuffs, the wood chips, and erosion into himself. If he died, you felt certain his old shop would reclaim all its entropy in an instant and turn to ash before your eyes.

“No need to be polite, I know my handiwork ain’t what it used to be,” he’d say and tap his damaged horn. “Don’t make a lick of difference, I got all the stories right up here. That’s about the only piece they left of me.”

That was the second half of the double-dare; you had to listen to one of his stories. Foals would swap the stories they’d heard Old Merry tell them after they’d undertaken the dare themselves. No, you didn’t want to hear how he lost his leg, or how he became known as a heretic for believing in all the wrong gods—those stories had been used up and weren’t interesting anymore. To truly pass the dare, you had to share something new.

If prodded enough, he’d go to the door and peer outside suspiciously. He’d lock the door and flip the sign in his window from “Open” to “Closed”, then he’d draw the curtains. It wasn’t frightening; he’d treated previously-dared foals in a similar manner.

With the shop now in the privacy of darkness, Old Merry lit a lantern and took out a pair of wooden puppets, the most fantastic toys you’d ever lay eyes on (They obviously came from a time before his horn was damaged). Two alicorns, their features carved with tenderness, painted with stunning regalia, so carefully preserved you’d think them immortal. Your ears and eyes would be wide as he told their story—beginning with their forbidden names. He’d lift the pair into the air and make them dance, make them into something you’d believe was actually alive. Years would vanish from Old Merry, melt from his face in shining tears and fly from his breath in raptured words. You’d see he wanted them to be real more than anything, and when he came to the part of the story where his two protagonists raised the sun and moon, you’d know he actually believed it.

“Is it true what ponies say? Did they really die?” you may ask him.

“Ah, I don’t tell those kinds of stories...” he’d reply, and before his age enveloped him again, he’d let a twinkle escape his good eye, “...but, I wouldn’t count on it!”

Then he’d usher you out of his shop so he could get back to growing old alone.

You’d find your friends huddling in the alleyway where they wouldn’t be seen. They’d eagerly ask for the story he told, and you’d feel disappointed that you couldn’t share your bit-worthy tale.








***