Worm their way in
Applejack sat at the kitchen table, head hung low and golden mane unwashed. She was staring vacantly at her thick stack of pancakes, while across from her, her brother Macintosh was just encroaching on finishing half of his.
“They ain’t comin’ back, are they?” Applejack spoke at last, breaking the tense, heavy silence between the three, and looked from her untouched pancakes to the sleeping yellow foal cradled in her forelegs.
“Y’ain’t eat’n’?” Granny Smith asked, lifting the tap lever up to run hot water on the bowl and utensils she’d used to make and mix the pancake batter. She had gotten up before the rooster’d called to make sure it would all be ready for eating by the time her grandfoals came down the stairs.
“Ain’t hungry,” Applejack muttered, and watched as the foal in her forelegs crooned itself awake, and suckled on its hoof.
“Oh,” Granny Smith tried thinking of some encouraging words, but realised almost instantly that she was not good at it, “well, try t’ get somethin’ down yer gullet.”
Slowly, the orange filly pushed her plate away from her, without another word. Granny could hear her stomach rumble. “Y’can have it, if yer want.”
Granny Smith stared at the plate for some time. In truth, the thought of eating made her feel sick, and pain in her stomach and the strain under her eyes made her feel even sicker. Mac couldn’t have a second breakfast so high in sugar, because it would have actually made him sick, and the newborn foal most certainly could not digest such a rich meal.
Granny Smith hummed. She pushed the plate back to Applejack. She wasn’t going to waste food she had woken up two hours earlier than what she needed to prepare for. “Eat it.”
“I - ain’t - hungry!”
“Applejack,” Granny Smith put on her best dinner-lady voice from back when the Apple Family - then three times smaller than what it was now - had its first Sweet Apple Acres hootenanny. “I can hear ya stomach rumblin’, so eat it.”
“No,” Applejack retorted, using a tone twice as sharp.
“Eat it!” Granny Smith raised her voice.
“I ain’t hungry!” Applejack shot up and slammed a hoof onto the table, the newborn foal now held in her left foreleg. It whined at the outburst.
“Alright, alright! Simmer down, ya silly filly,” said Granny Smith, gesturing with her hoof for Applejack to sit back down. Sighing, Granny Smith gave in, and scraped the untouched food into the waste bin.
As the orange filly lowered herself back into her seat, the foal in her forelegs started to screech. “Uh, oh - Granny? I think the baby’s hungry,” Applejack said, quickly rocking her sister in an effort to silence her. “Sh, sh, sh...”
“Oh, dear,” Granny Smith reeled in dismay, biting down on the tip of her hoof, because the foal was still at nursing age.
Pound Sweet stared down at the yellow newborn in her forelegs with watery eyes. Every inch of her body from bones to muscle ached with strain and exhaustion, but emotion now corroded her mind and seemed to blank everything else out.
She stared at the newborn foal - her newborn foal - and took in every single one of his features, so she’d never forget the next time she closed her eyes. He had a cute little button nose, she knew, because she gently poked it as she yawned.
His eyes were a brilliant green, and his smile was worthy of lighting up an entire room. His vivid red hair was absolutely voluminous and bouncy, especially for a colt. There was a cute little group of dark freckles on his nose, a trait which Pound had borne herself as a foal, although hers had been white.
He was a big foal, born premature and needed to be cut out of her. It was what she got for marrying such a large stallion. The darned mite had brought her a great deal of pain, but looking back, she wouldn’t have traded it for anything as long as it meant she was given this wonderful son, all healthy and smiling.
At the beginning of her term Pound had quite vocally yearned for a daughter, but now she hadn’t a clue what she had been thinking, because he was hers. And he was her new everything, the apple of her eye, even if it meant watching the whole of Sweet Apple Acres burn to the ground to keep him with her forever.
Apple Rose had swaddled him in a tightly-knit pale pink blanket and placed him in her hooves, and she had just stared at him in shock. She had been absolutely besotted with him, and she’d be damned if anything would happen to him before it did her.
Everypony that Pound Sweet held closest were showing their adoration for her new foal together. Her husband was pressing his head to hers; Goldie Delicious was cooing and waggling a nimble hoof at her new cousin; her sister Applesauce and father were both congratulating her; and Apple Rose was sticking out her forelegs to take the newborn foal and telling Pound that it was time to sleep. Pound barely heard her.
When Pound Sweet woke up hours later, she saw her husband Cortland sitting across the room from her with her newborn foal in his large red forelegs.
Pound Sweet had never been a fan of foals, but this one was perfect. He was quiet and happy and hers. He was the image of perfection.
Bright Mac was her foal, and she loved him with everything she had.
Pear Butter sat at the kitchen table with her head hung low and her curly orange mane unwashed. She was holding her head in her hoof and staring at the empty table, while opposite her, her new mother-in-law Pound Sweet was trying her best to comfort her.
“Now, now, Pear Butter,” she said, because she didn’t know what else to call her, “I’m sure he’ll be back fer ya.” Although, they both knew that was a complete lie. “An even if he ain’t back, it’ll jus’ prove them Pears- I, uh, mean, he’s as sharp as a mashed-up tater.”
Pear Butter smiled weakly and sniffed. It was a horrible sight: somepony crying. “Thank you for lettin’ me stay here.”
“Nonsense!” Pound Sweet exclaimed. “Yer as much as an Apple as a pear!” Pear Butter lifted her head and gave the chuckling Pound an odd look. “Well, y’know, seein’ as the two fruits ain’t... never you mind nothin’ by it, Pear Butter. Jus’ me bein’ silly. Small talk was always more’a Mac’s pa’s job, anyhow. My, that stallion could brighten the black side o’ the moon, Celestia rest his soul.”
Pear Butter smiled gingerly, and slowly slid a hoof over the table to place over Pound’s.
While Pound found that she was upset for Pear Butter, she still had that residential joy in finally seeing the backside of Grand Pear and the rest of his clan. She looked back at Pear Butter. Most of his clan, anyway.
“Can I get ya anythin’, Ms. Smith?” Pear Butter asked, pushing herself up from her seat.
Pound Sweet scrubbed the inside of her left ear with a rough hoof. “Eh? What’d’ya jus’ call me?”
“Oh,” Pear Butter gave a sweet, lopsided grin, “is this th’ sorta thing where ya say ‘don’ bother, you’re family now, call me ma’, or ‘Granny’?”
“No, ah’m wonderin’ why ya called me ‘Smith’,” Pound said.
Pear Butter blanched as she sank back down into her seat. “B-B-But I- that’s what pa said yer name was.”
“Was what?”
“You know...” Pear Butter mumbled, ashamedly, “Granny Smith.”
Pound Sweet gave a singular, sudden laugh. “Hah! Well, that ol’ codger’d do anythin’ t’ get under mah’ hide,” she said.
Pear Butter giggled into her hoof. It was a sweet, melodic noise.
“It’s Pound Sweet to you, dearie,” Pound said, and she saw something in her new daughter-in-law that she’d seen in both herself and her mother. “And yer right, y’are family. So don’t be goin’ on with all the ‘missus’ business, ya hear?”
“Well,” Pear Butter began, in a manner that suggested that she believed she shouldn’t, and her pretty blue eyes became watery, like the ocean, “s’pose we might hafta start callin’ ya that. ’specially the, uh- the granny bit.”
Any indication of what that might have meant passed straight through Pound Sweet like a cloud of mist.
“Wha’s that s’pose t’ mean?” she asked, rather crudely.
Pear Butter took a deep breath. “Bright Mac ’n’ I didn’ get married just ’cause we love one another, Ms- Pound Sweet. I mean, that was mostly ’cause of it. ’cause we do, it’s jus’...”
“Goodness, Pear Butter, you’re nervouser’n a long-tailed cat in a room full o’ rockin’ chairs.”
“I’m pregnant.”
“Y’what?” Pound Sweet had heard her daughter-in-law as clear as day, but her mind was now overtaken with too much shock to fully register what had just been said.
“I’m pregnant,” Pear Butter repeated, slower.
“Well, I’ll be,” Pound Sweet awed, leaning back in her seat with a surprised expression. “Holy shizuka! Are ya sure?”
Pear Butter smiled, “Yeah. Yeah, I’m sure.”
“Afternoon, ladies,” Bright Mac greeted them as he opened the back door, and instantly went to kiss Pear Butter on the forehead. Pound watched the lovely scene with a smile.
“Hi,” Pear Butter said, looking up at her husband and pecking him on the lips. He grabbed his dusty old stetson and placed it on her head. She giggled with a snort.
“Aw, look at that,” Pound crooned to herself. “Ain’t that sweet?”
“He sure is,” Pear Butter’s smile was growing infectiously bright. “I was just tellin’ your ma the news.”
Bright Mac gasped quietly. “Ohhh,” he whined, “ya told her without me?”
“So, uh,” there was a question on Pound’s mind that made her feel almost dirty asking, “was it planned, this foal? ’r didja try makin’ a dishonest stallion outta my Bright Mac, here?”
Bright Mac blushed as Pear Butter gave a noise that suggested amusement. He slid onto the edge of the chair that she sat on, and the two each had a foreleg around the other. “Well, we’d thought about it... thinkin’ that perhaps it’d make things better b’tween our families, and - I dunno -” Pear Butter’s tone fermented with a bubbly laugh laced into it, “I guess it jus’ sorta happened.”
“I see,” Pound Sweet mused over this piece of information as if it was a piece of hard candy in her mouth. “An’ ya s’posed th’ marriage’d cushion the blow?”
“Well, ma, it ain’t like we weren’t gonna get married anyway,” Bright Mac said with a tactfully proportioned frown, “it’s jus’ that things sorta happened.”
“Ah’ know that,” Pound retorted, defiantly. “It’s jus’ that in my mind yer both a mite too young fer this sorta thing.”
“Ma-”
“Let me finish, Bright Mac,” she interrupted him. “Now, I know I ain’t the kinda mare ya’d ’spect t’ have ‘the talk’ offa, but there ain’t nopony else t’, an’ I am yer ma in these tryin’ times, now, with the Pears up’n leavin’ like that, ’n’ ev’rythin’. But, I promise ya we Apples ain’t like that.”
“Ma!” Bright Mac scolded her.
“Oh, she knows what I mean,” but then Pound turned to Pear Butter just to make sure, placing a gentle hoof on the top of hers: “Y’know what I meant, right, dearie?”
Pear Butter nodded eagerly.
“Good,” she smiled proudly at her son and daughter-in-law. “An’ ya better ’spect me wantin’ ya to let me help ’round with my grandfoal, ya hear?”
“Of course,” the two smiled back, and for a while, a beautiful, warm silence settled over the kitchen.
Granny Smith quietly opened the door to Applejack’s room and closed it behind her with a loud click. The orange filly’s head whipped around at the sudden noise, but soon returned to looking sorry for herself, sitting at the foot of her bed.
“Look, ’m mighty sorry fer earlier,” Granny pulled a tattered brown stetson from behind her back and clutched it to her chest. “Ah’ didn’ mean t’ snap at ya.”
“Then why did ya?” Applejack replied, staring down at the floor.
“S’pose ah’ was jus’ tired,” Granny mumbled her excuse and made her way over to her grandfilly on three hooves. “Here.”
Applejack slowly lifted her head and her eyes went wide. “Is that Pa’s?”
“Well, whose else’d it be?” Granny retorted defensively as she let the filly take it off of her hoof. In truth, it wasn’t. Bright Mac had ended up being put into the ground with it on, but Applejack wouldn’t have known that because it had been a closed casket.
Granny Smith had gone out and paid top-bit for a model practically identical to the one that Bright Mac had always worn. Then, she’d trampled it with her own four hooves and dug a hole in the orchard to bury it for a few days.
The new hat was also darker, because it wasn’t as weathered as the trusted old rag that Bright Mac wore without fail. Granny had tried putting it out on the outskirts of the orchard for a couple of hours in an attempt to get it to a closer colour, but it had then rained and done nothing for adjusting the colour.
“He’d’ve wanted ya to have it,” Granny said. She recalled several occasions where Bright Mac had given his hat to Applejack and told her that it suited her. This was surely the next best thing.
“Oh, thank ya, Granny!” Applejack hugged the hat tightly, and Granny Smith had to mask a wet sniff with a cough, her eyes blinking rapidly in an effort to clear her vision.
Old age be darned, she told herself.
“Now, now,” she said, fighting the waver in her voice, “don’t ya go ruinin’ it, none.”
“Oh, ah’ won’t. Ah’ promise!” The orange filly put the hat on, and it was only just a couple of inches away from being the perfect fit. Applejack frowned suddenly; Granny’s heart leapt into her throat. “This ain’t Pa’s hat.”
“Yeah, well-” Granny sputtered profusely, “’course it is! Whatever d’ya mean it ain’t?”
“Ah’ dunno,” Applejack replied, and the panic in Granny’s chest grew slightly less sickening, “it feels diff’rent. Smaller.”
Granny wondered if she’d accidentally gotten a mare’s instead of a stallion’s. Given the design, she assumed that she hadn’t. Had it been the rain? Had she gotten a size too small?
“Probably ’cause ya squished it, ya silly filly!” Granny said at last, coming up with a solution that might have made perfect sense to a young filly like Applejack. “Now, c’mere!” she exclaimed, sitting beside her grandfoal and pulling her into her side for a hug.
“Ya think I ruined it?” Applejack asked timidly.
“Nah. Ah’m sure it’ll pluck back inta shape, Applejack, just you watch.”
“Thanks, Granny.”
“Whatcha go’n’ name it?” Pound Sweet asked Pear Butter and Bright Mac as she sat between them on the sofa.
“I’m not too sure,” said Pear Butter, now in her sixth month of pregnancy and showing admirably. She laid turned on her back with a foreleg gently draped over her underbelly and another touched behind her head which rested against the left arm of the sofa on a blue pillow with a pear tree illustrated on the front. Goldie Delicious had made it for her as a welcome-to-the-family gift. “We’re still unsure on whether we want a Pear name or an Apple name.”
Pound Sweet chuckled. Behind her, as she was sitting tilted in Pear Butter’s favour, sat Bright Mac in a similar position to her, but with his hind legs lifted onto the seat.
“She keeps comin’ up with hoity-toity beetrooty names,” he said.
“‘Beetrooty’ ain’t a word, doofus,” Pear Butter giggled, and reached over Pound Sweet’s tilted hips to playfully nudge at her husband with a hindleg. “’sides, what’s wrong with ‘Bartlett’?”
Pound laughed so abruptly that she snorted, “He’s right, that is beetrooty.”
“Looks like yer outnumbered, here, Buttercup,” Bright Mac grinned, teasingly.
“Oh, shove it up your-” remembering Pound Sweet’s presence, Pear Butter corrected herself with a gentle cough. “Fine, I s’pose Bartlett’s off the table.”
“Buttercup, it ain’t even was invited t’ dinner,” he teased her, leaning over his mother to show her his cheeky grin. Pear Butter scoffed. “C’mon. Tell ma yer other names.”
Pear Butter sighed, and eased herself back onto her pillow. “Well, if it’s a colt, and seein’ as Bartlett’s off the table, I was thinkin’ Anjou.”
“That ain’t so bad,” Pound Sweet said, imagining herself calling little Anjou when the soup’s on.
“That ain’t what I meant,” Bright Mac exclaimed, “’n’ you know it!”
“Fine!” Pear Butter drawled out before exhaling through her nose. She pressed herself into her pillow and rested both of her front hooves and her stomach, wiggling to-and-fro. “Well - ’nd these’re for girls - I was sorta thinkin’ ’bout Forelle, or maybe ev’n Comice, or Conference.”
Pound Sweet cringed, but tried to hide it with a pressed smile. “Conference ain’t so bad.”
“See? She hates ’em,” Pear Butter whined. Bright Mac chuckled in reply. “Well, what d’you have that’s so brilliant, mister?” She asked, giving a playful little pout.
“If it’s a girl, then Ambrosia,” Bright Mac said, “which’s what Ma wanted to call me if I was a filly. Ain’t that right, Ma?”
Pound Sweet put a hoof to her chin. “Well, o’ course, that’s what yer pa wanted to call ya. Thought it was all rich ’n’ purdy-like.”
“It was what Pa wanted, then.”
“No, I wanted t’ call ’im Apple Bloom. Nice ’n’ sweet, like him. Like a sugarcube.”
“Aw, that’s so sweet,” Pear Butter cooed. “Well, shucks, they’re both nice, but... what else’d you have in mind, Bright Mac?”
“Well, if’n it’s a colt, then Macintosh, after grandpa.”
“Well, ain’t that the sweetest?” Pound Sweet smiled, because her son’s smile was infectious.
“After you, more like,” Pear Butter said playfully. “Though, I s’pose it would be nice to name one of our foals after a relative.”
“Ya kidd’n’? Cousin Goldie named her colt after herself!” Pound Sweet exclaimed. “Though, if’n ya don’ want t’ be namin’ it after an apple, how’s ’bout Cyrus? Ain’t that whatcha call a mix a’tween a pear ’n’ an apple?”
“Cyrus,” Pear Butter hummed to herself. “Now, I do like that one.”
“How many you plannin’ on havin’, anyhow?”
“I want four,” Pear Butter said, “so nopony gets left out.”
“Well, yer stronger’n me, Butter, ah’ll tell ya that fer noth’n,” Pound Sweet said. “Now, Bright Mac was so big he hadta be cut outta me. Wouldn’t trade him for the world, but he sure did wreck me all over ’n’ then some. I’ll tell ya, I don’ think my teaters’ve been right since!”
As Pear Butter, now propped up on the knee of one foreleg, giggled into one of her hooves, Bright Mac grabbed his hat and hid behind it with bright pink cheeks. “Ma!” he whined.
“Oh, calm yerself,” she tutted. “Jus’ be prepared fer it, is all I’m sayin’. If’n it’s a colt. Or a filly, who knows with his ol’ genes!” She prodded Bright Mac in the shoulder, the two mares giggled at his embarrassment.
“Don’ you worry ’bout me, Ma, I’m sure ah’ll be fine,” Pear Butter said as she and Bright Mac both leaned over Pound Sweet and rubbed noses lovingly.
The sight was so heartwarming that Pound Sweet felt her eyes suddenly sting. “Oh, but I do worry fer ya, sugar.”
“Ma?” Bright Mac asked in concern as Pound shut her eyes and wiped at her eyes with her hooves.
“Oh, dontcha go frettin’ ’bout yer old mare, now, none,” she said, “jus’ me bein’ silly, is all.”
“No it ain’t, if it’s upsettin’ ya,” Pear Butter said. Pound recalled her old Cortland saying that. “What’s the matter?”
“It’s just -” Pound opened her eyes and found both of her children looking up at her in shock. Pear Butter now sat almost upright, still using a foreleg behind her for balance, and Bright Mac was hunched over, large shaven hooves gently playing with her right forehoof. “-It’s just that this’s all my fault. Years ago when them Pears first moved in, rentin’ a couple’a acres.”
“It’s okay, Ma,” Bright Mac whispered dotingly.
“But, it ain’t, ya hear?” Pound realised she had raised her voice and shrank back into the cushions of the sofa. “I jus’ didn’ realise how bad it was gettin’ to have effected th’ two’a ya so, ’nd I jus’ made it worser ’n’ worser.”
“Ma-” Bright Mac began, but Pound Sweet was quick to stop him.
“Don’t, Bright Mac. I ain’t done.” She took a deep, quivering breath. “I pushed that pa o’ yours further’n further ev’ry time jus’ to givin’ myself the satisfaction o’ makin’ his blunders, ’nd now ya ain’t got yer family, ’n’ family’s the most ’portant thing ya got. ’s’all my fault, dearie. I- I’m so sorry, t’ the both’a ya. ’specially you, Buttercup. Truly, I am.” She tried masking a genuine, minute sob with a cough, but it didn’t really work. “An’ yer jus’ so strong... an’ I...”
Pear Butter glanced fleetingly at her husband before hugging Pound Sweet with such warmth and firmness it was evident that she no longer - if she ever did - blamed her.
“I love ya, Ma,” she said quietly, nestling her head against her left side.
“I love ya, too,” Bright Mac added, resting his head on his mother’s right shoulder.
“Never do what I did, y’hear?” Pound murmured to them, easing her tensed muscles. “Who knew I’d have two children that’d make me so proud’a ’em?”
Pear Butter and Bright Mac both smiled.
Dear Ms. Smith,
Recently two bodies have come into our possession and upon thorough inspection of both we have asked you to visit us at 12:00 PM SET on the 7th of July, on the Tuesday.
The two bodies in question are earth ponies, one female and one male, the male having an apple cutie mark.
We ask that you do not bring another along with you unless you are absolutely certain that they, too, can help identify the bodies further.
Sincerely,
Dr. Shadow Colt of the Ponyville Morgue
Granny Smith hugged the letter to her chest and looked up at the ceiling. Her chest was tight and her nose was blocking. She blinked her stinging eyes and let out a shaky breath.
“Y’alright, Granny?” Applejack asked from across the table. Little Mac was next to her, and the foal was upstairs asleep in its crib.
“Ah’m fine, sugarlump,” Granny said, and manufactured a tightly woven smile for her two oldest grandfoals, “ah’m jus’ thinkin’ the two o’ ya an’ yer sister can go’n visit yer cousin Goldie fer a day or so next week. Keep ’er company in that ol’ shack o’ hers. ’m sure she’ll be happy to see the front ends o’ ya.”
“But what if Ma ’n’ Pa come back?” Applejack asked, with a voice like uncooked sourdough.
“Oh, don’ you worry ’bout that none, Applejack,” Granny said, “I’ve still got some errands to do ’round Ponyville fer th’ Confluence, ’nd I’ll make sure to tell ’em where ya are.”
“We ain’t going there by ourselves, are we?” asked the orange filly nervously.
“Heavens, no! I’ll make sure to take ya there myself.”
“Ah’ meant stayin’ with cousin Goldie,” Applejack said.
“Well, whatever do ya mean?” The older mare bit back. “What’s wrong with yer cousin Goldie?”
“Cats,” Applejack and Little Mac said together, as if they were a set of identical twins.
“Well, yer both goin’ ’n’ that’s final,” Granny Smith assured sharply.
And go the three foals did. That following Tuesday just before dawn, Granny Smith had made Applejack and Little Mac breakfast, and Little Mac had taken a bottle of Pear Butter’s milk out of the fridge to heat up on the stove.
Granny Smith had taken the three by carriage to Goldie’s cabin, and dropped them off with a kiss on each of their heads. When Goldie answered the door - a tubby grey cat bristled on her back - Granny asked for Little Mac and Applejack to wait inside while she talked to Goldie.
“Oh, my,” Goldie said with a hoof to her mouth upon hearing the news.
“Ah’ dunno yet,” she said, “an they don’t know squat. So keep it on the down-low, ya got that? Heavens know how it’d affect them jus’ yet.”
“Ya got it,” Goldie lowered her voice to a mere whisper, “an’... how’re you feelin’ in this endeavour?”
“It ain’t a nice feelin’, Goldie, ah’ll give ya that. But, ah’ should also be headin’ back. Ah’ll be pickin’ ’em up sometime later.”
“Ah’ don’t mind keepin’ ’em overnight, y’got that? You jus’ focus on whatcha need to do.”
“Thank ya kindly, Goldie,” Granny smiled feebly and the two embraced before bidding their goodbyes.
“Ah’ like Pear Bloom,” Pear Butter said, laying on the sofa against her little blue pillow, thirteen weeks pregnant with her second child. “If’n it’s a girl.”
“Yer pretty big already,” Granny Smith said, with a teasing grin as she sat beside the sofa between it and the coffee table. “P’raps it’s twins!” she joked, although she couldn’t help but wonder if it was.
Pear Butter laughed and held a cheek in one of her hooves, “Gosh, I hope not.”
Bright Mac sat with his hind legs up on the seat next to Pear Butter. He was facing her completely, and leant towards her as he entered a position that almost had him laying. “An’ if’n it’s a colt?”
“Well, Grand Pear’s name before he grew older was Pearjack,” Pear Butter said softly, “an’ I know I shouldn’t be thinkin’ about him, ’specially now, but I think he’d like it. Even if he doesn’t exactly like who it’s with.”
Granny Smith smiled and placed a hoof on her daughter-in-law’s shoulder. “S’pose Applejack’d jus’ push ’im to the edge,” she laughed lightly.
“Hey! Applejack’s nice,” Bright Mac jumped in. “Ain’t it?”
“Yeah, I guess it is,” Pear Butter’s voice was soft and quiet, like a mouse.
“What? You don’t like it, Buttercup?” he asked, contorting his brow.
“No, I like it,” she said demurely, in a singular breath. She turned on her left side, moseying her cheek into her pillow. While she faced her mother-in-law, she didn’t look at her. “Just s’pose we have t’ keep the whole Pear thing quiet, huh?”
Granny’s happiness faded and was replaced with concern. “Now, Butter, I was only messin’ with ya on the Applejack thing-”
“I know,” she said, small and fragile, “I like it. It’s a nice name. We’ll name it Applejack.”
Granny Smith and Bright Mac shared a look. Bright Mac would try to console her on the matter, but Granny knew better than to push it, and so she got up with a grunt and left the two alone.
Applejack and Macintosh opened the back door to the kitchen after coming home from school. Mac held Applejack’s saddlebags in his mouth while still having his own on his back.
Applejack readjusted her hat as she overtook her brother in the doorway, and Granny Smith put the pup’s bowl back down on the floor after washing it.
“How was school, younguns?” she asked them with a smile.
“Guess who didn’t show up, again,” Applejack said, looking over to her brother from the corner of her eye.
“Oh, Mac,” Granny frowned at her grandcolt as he placed his sister’s saddlebags on the table. “Again?”
Mac, tongue caught by a cat, gave his grandmother a sheepish look.
“Miss Wysteria wants t’ talk t’ ya ’bout it tomorrow,” Applejack stated, “she sent a letter’n ev’rythin’. Ain’t there, Mac? Show ’er.”
Mac gulped.
“An’ I’ll deal with yer brother later. But fer now, missy, we also needa chat about tellin’ the truth an’ grassin’ ponies up.”
Applejack went pale. “What? But I- Miss Wysteria told me to-”
“An’ that’s one thing,” Granny agreed, “but don’t make yer brother feel bad for summ’n he clearly already feels bad for!” she pointed a hoof over at Mac, who was hunched into himself like a cat cornered by a dog.
“But, Granny-”
“No buts, Applejack,” Granny interrupted, sharply, before turning to Mac. “An’ as for you, mister: livin’ room, now.”
Mac did as he was told and slinked his way out of the kitchen while his grandmother briefly reprimanded Applejack again for being a compulsive tattletale. Then, she took out the letter from her grandfilly’s saddlebags and swiftly read it.
As Granny stuffed the parchment back in Applejack’s bag and then turned to talk to Mac about his behaviour, Applejack found her voice again.
“Y’don’t get it, do ya?” the filly asked, bravely. “Pa always told me to be honest, like ’im. An’ I’m tryna be honest but you won’ let me!”
“Applejack...” Granny warned with an edge to her tone, “what’d yer Ma teach ya ’bout talkin’ back?”
“But that’s just it, ain’t it?” she asked, tears in her eyes. “They ain’t here to tell me! You don’t get it! You don’t get that they’re gone!”
Granny Smith watched her grandfilly’s red cheeks turn into babbling brooks of tears. “Now, Applejack, c’mere...”
“No!” Applejack snapped, taking the encroaching mare by surprise. The two stepped away from one another, one in shock and the other in defiance. “I bet yer happy, ain’t ya? I bet you like bein’ the one to boss us ’round, now! I bet yer happy that they’re gone!”
Granny’s hoof almost lifted to give Applejack a big clout, but she stopped it before it could do more than just twitch.
The foal upstairs started to bawl.
“Granny?” Applejack called in a voice borderlining terror. “The baby’s cryin’.”
“We’ll talk about this later, missy,” Granny said, but found that she had no aspiration to. She put her mind to going up the stairs to tend to her bawling grandfoal, but as she turned the corner into the living room, she found that Mac was nowhere to be seen, and soon the crying stopped.
It was half-eleven by the time Granny Smith made it back to Ponyville. It was ten-to-twelve by the time she reached the morgue.
She had worn an orange shawl because it was nippy, and held it closed with a hoof as she was escorted by two mares and a stallion into a cold room with a wall of mortuary fridges.
Granny Smith found that the room wasn’t devoid of ponies alive like herself. A stallion and a mare stood in each corner of the room opposite the fridges, while the two mares that had helped escort her in took a stance at the doors.
“We tend to use cutie marks as a form of identification, given their uniqueness,” Dr. Colt said aridly, looking over his glasses which were halfway down his muzzle. “All we require of you, Ms. Smith, is to tell us if you recognise these two ponies’ cutie marks, and give us their names.”
Granny Smith nodded, despite how only half of what the stallion said had actually registered with her. “Show me the stallion first,” she said in turn, her voice dry and lacking much emotion. It was too flat and vacant for Granny to be too sure whether it still belonged to her.
“As you wish,” said the prosaic stallion before her, and then opened one of the fridges. It squeaked as he pulled it open; Granny watched as he used a gloved hoof to lift a part of the covering, revealing the body’s left flank.
The fur was butter-yellow but marred so heavily it bordered a greenish colour. A thin red line struck through the body’s cutie mark like a knife, but it wasn’t enough to completely deface it.
There, covered in dirt and ash, was the open side of an apple-half, framed in green with a golden star in the centre, framed by four black seeds each pointing outwards like open forelegs calling you home after a long travel.
“I’d like to see the rest o’ him,” Granny Smith said stiffly, her vision blurring. She blinked the impairment away.
“Ms. Smith, do you or do you not recognise this stallion’s cutie mark?” asked Dr. Colt sternly.
“I said: show me the rest o’ ’im,” the mare repeated, louder and quicker as to make it past the large lump in her throat.
“Ms. Smith, I’m afraid I can’t do that.”
“Show him to me!”
“Ms. Smith, I’m going to have to ask you to calm dow-”
“Don’ you tell me t’ ‘calm down’! You calm down, ya hear?” As she jabbed a hoof in the doctor’s direction, Granny was made conscious of her voice being raised, but directed no effort as to correct it.
“Ms. Smith...” Dr. Colt had a tinge of threat to his voice, but Granny knew it was worthless.
Two mares - nurses - came either side of her and tried pulling her away from the stallion, but to no avail, as the many years used working away on the farm bucking apples had obviously given her an advantage as she fought her way back to the tray where the apple-flanked body laid restful.
“Don’t ya dare, doc!” Granny snapped, hitting the two mares off of her only for one of the stallions to get involved. “No! Get - off’a - me. Let me see him! I don’t care whatcha fancy ol’ rule book says! Let me see my son!”
“So you do recognise this cutie mark,” Dr. Colt said. “Ms. Smith, thank you for your time. We all recognise that this is a hard time for both you and your family, but once you identify the second body, the nurses, grief counsellors and myself will be happy to-”
With a speed she didn’t know what she had, Granny Smith grabbed the blanket covering the body and pulled it off. There was some restraint, as the side opposite had been tucked under, but soon it was off, and Granny regretted her actions immediately.
On his back laid Bright Mac. She knew it was him from the cutie mark, but beyond that he was unrecognisable.
Granny Smith stared down at the yellow stallion in front of her with watery eyes. Every inch of her body from bones to muscle ached with despair and denial, but reality now corroded her mind and seemed to make her numb to anything else but him.
His face bore an expression barren of grief that for a moment it felt as though she was staring at a foal - her foal - instead of a fully grown stallion.
She stared at Bright Mac and, with a heavy heart, took in every single one of his features, wishing that she’d forget the next time she closed her eyes. Wishing that it was just a dream - a nightmare - and that when she opened her eyes it would all be gone.
He had a swollen, broken nose, and one side of his face was bruised black and brown and blue, taking her back to the days where he and Burnt Oak would go too far roughhousing, or where he’d gotten into a fight at school.
His throat was ripped open and the sticky blood that hadn’t been allowed to dry yet was reflecting the light from the ceiling’s lightbulb. His jaw was askew and a stream of dried blood marked the space right down to his jaw underneath his left eye, or at least what was left of it, because half of the eyeball was gone, leaving enough space for Granny Smith to see into the back of his head.
His eyes - what was left of them - were blank, a mistified green, and his crooked, agape mouth was reminiscent of when he’d run into his mother’s room and tell her that he’d had a nightmare. His soiled red hair was wiry and limp, for such a young pony. There was a cute little group of dark freckles on his nose, but the rest of his coat was so dark with grime and blood that they could barely be noticed.
Granny Smith remembered the day he’d been brought to her in a blanket. No matter how many times he upset her - which was few and far between - or when they’d argued over him fraternising with Pear Butter, she always knew that she wouldn’t have traded him for anything as long as it meant she had him as a wonderful son, all healthy and smiling and making her proud.
Well, he had made her proud. Even until the very end.
Bright Mac was hers. He always had been hers. He was her everything, the apple of her eye, and long ago when he had been born, she had vowed that she would sooner watch the whole of Sweet Apple Acres burn to the ground than see any harm come his way.
And she’d never see him again. She’d never be able to tell him, or Pear Butter, how she felt about them. How much they’d made her proud, how much she loved them both, and how much she’d miss them.
Dr. Colt and the nurses quickly - but not quick enough - tucked her Bright Mac in and pushed him back into his cold bed.
The blood had long since rushed out of Granny Smith’s head and legs to make her feel sick to her stomach. Her son’s mortified face still rendered in her mind, stuck in the very centre of her attention. She didn’t bother blinking or wiping away her tears as they were let loose down her cheeks.
A wavering hoof, feeling detached from Granny Smith’s barrel, aimlessly reached out for her son.
“We are extremely sorry you had to see that, Ms. Smith,” Dr. Colt said immediately. Granny Smith’s left ear had turned to him, but her amber eyes stuck to the door to her son’s resting place.
He must be awful cold in there, she thought. I could make him soup. But she knew that Bright Mac couldn’t eat it; he’d always said that he hated the texture.
“Would you like for us to escort you to a more comfortable place for our grief counsellors to support you before you inspect the other body?” inquired the frigid doctor, gently pushing her wandering hoof back to her.
“An’ the mare was with him?” Granny Smith asked, nothing but a faint whisper.
“That she was, Ms. Smith,” Dr. Colt assented; “they were found together in the-”
“Then that’s Pear Butter: his wife,” Granny said, snippily, as she gave a sudden sniff. “That’s my son, and that’s his wife.”
“Thank you, Ms. Smith,” Dr. Colt gave a thin, brittle smile, “your assistance is greatly appreciated. Now, would you like to accompany my colleague Tea Cozy here to the grief counsellor’s office?”
“I don’t need no counsellin’,” Granny Smith replied, refinding her bravado at last, “I needa go pick up my grandfoals from their cousin’s house.”
Dr. Colt shifted in his place, and adjusted his spectacles with a dark blue hoof. “Ah, I see. Well, if you or the children ever need someone to talk to, here are the details to a well-renowned therapist that we work with.” And with that, the stallion presented to Granny Smith a small white card with black writing on it.
“Ah, hooey,” she proclaimed in disgust, but took one small glance at Bright Mac’s drawer, and took it off of him, anyway. Not for herself, but for Applejack and Little Mac.
Granny Smith sat smiling in her rocking chair next to the foal’s crib, rocking to-and-fro as she hummed, putting the emptied baby bottle on the surface next to her.
“Well, ain’t ya the cutest,” she muttered softly as the yellow foal let out a squeaky hiccup. She lightly pressed the infant’s button nose and brushed back her bouncy, vivid red mane.
She stared up at Granny with her large, brilliant amber eyes and let out a high-pitched, bubbly giggle.
Granny swore she could turn off all the lights and blow out all the candles in the house, and the room would still be bright with light from the filly’s lucent smile.
“Yer the spit o’ yer Pa, ya hear?” Granny muttered, her eyes stinging so fiercely she had to close them for a bit, before grinning as she wiped the excess milk from the filly’s muzzle with a tissue. “’cept he weren’t so messy.”
The innocent foal burbled and cooed as her nose twitched at the sensation.
With that, Granny Smith put the foal over her shoulder and leaned forward towards the crib and placed her youngest grandfilly down into it.
“G’night, sugarlumps,” she whispered, granting herself a moment of sniffing and wiping her eyes as she stood up.
“Granny?” Applejack asked as Granny Smith helped lift her and her brother into the carriage from Goldie’s.
“What’d di-doo, Applejack?” she replied as she handed the foal over to Little Mac so she could get into the carriage herself. “Alright, we’re all right ’n’ ready t’ go,” she turned to the driver and sat.
As the carriage started moving, Applejack spoke her mind. “Well, cousin Goldie was showin’ us some books on the family.”
“Well, that’s nice of her,” Granny Smith said, flashing a frangible grin. “Didja learn someth’n’ new?”
“Somethin’ ’bout Pears’n Apples,” Applejack said. “And a feud.”
Granny stifled a choking noise that wanted to rise up from her chest, and she turned her head away from her grandfoals abruptly to hide her tears. Pear Butter flashed into her mind, and then all of her arguments with Grand Pear. The years wasted on arguing with him and the rest of the Pear family, and the devastation never resolved because of it.
“Do you know anythin’ about it?”
Granny couldn’t bring herself to talk a single word. She put a hoof to her mouth and once her vision cleared a bit she turned back to them. Then, not knowing what exactly to say through the sudden wave of emotion that she thought she had been able to still, she said, “Enough ’bout it! Y’ain’t to talk ’bout no Pears, ya hear?”
Applejack and Little Mac looked at one another before nodding.
“Good,” Granny let herself ease just a bit, but remained on edge in fear of the watery film over her eyes bursting like a dam. “Now, I’ve asked one o’ yer other cousins to come ’round with his bitch ’n’ her pups fer ya to choose from. Ya like that?”
The two lit up. “Oh, Granny!” Applejack was the first to cry, and latched herself around her grandmother’s barrel. “Thank ya, thank ya, thank ya!”
Granny Smith smiled down into the bouncy blonde mane of her grandfilly and stroked her head in a manner that suggested she might break. “Anythin’ fer you three, dearie.”
Granny Smith’s dull amber eyes snapped open to the sound of caterwauling almost as soon as her head hit the pillow. The muscle in her right cheek twitched as she stared at the canopy of her bed.
The foal was awake, and she was crying.
Groaning from the weight of exhaustion and age on her back and responsibility on her shoulders, the aging mare got out of bed and rolled her neck. It clicked twice, once either side.
The foal was awake, and she was crying.
Granny tried recollecting what she’d already done with the baby in an effort to rule out some of the reasons as to why she might have been awake and stressing, but only found it too loud, because the foal was awake, and she was crying.
The foal was crying so loudly, it sounded as though she was waiting for her lungs to blow before she ever had an inkling to stop.
Because the foal was awake, and she was crying.
Granny found it hard to think. Her temples hurt like her brain was swelling in an effort to split them.
Because the foal was awake, and she was crying.
The problem would be solved by now with Pear Butter and Bright Mac still around. They would have still been able to move much quicker than Granny without much hassle, and Pear Butter would sing sweetly and rock the filly back to sleep while Bright Mac would fluff the cradle’s pillows back up.
Right, Granny thought, sniffing, see to the foal ’n’ think later.
“Granny, Granny!” The lights to Granny Smith’s room turned on. Granny’s eyes watered at the change in light, and the tears streaming down her cheeks were probably because of it. She squinted, and found Applejack in her bedroom doorway. Her hat was on her head; she must have slept in it. “The baby’s cryin’!”
Applejack had come in to tell her because she had left it too long. The foal had woken her up because it was awake, and it was crying.
“I know she is!” Granny Smith retorted, her voice cracking. “What? Ya think I can’t hear it?”
“I want ya to do something about it!” Applejack said, yelling over the sound of her younger sister crying.
“What? Ya think I don’t know that either?” Granny felt a biddy hoof poke her in the left shoulder. “Hang on a sec’, sweetbean,” she said to Mac swiftly, without needing to check who it was. “Well, I don’t see you so eager t’ sort it out!” Granny continued to her pugnacious grandfilly.
“I would, it’s jus’-”
The sharp, pestful prods in her shoulder seemed completely incessant and unconcerned with what the particular subject matter of the quarrel was.
“I said, wait a minute,” Granny shot Mac a fleeting glare, just to return to Applejack before the gangly colt had a chance to reply. “It’s jus’ what, Applejack? You’re jus’ scared o’ a li’l’ spittle?”
“No,” Applejack retaliated, without much of a tone to confidently back it up.
“Well, what is it?”
“It’s - just - I- ain’t it your job now that Ma ’nd Pa are gone?”
The poking in her shoulder became infuriatingly distracting, everything else considered, that Granny Smith wondered whether it’d make her shoulder fester. She whipped around to her grandson with cheeks pink and wet, “Damnit, Mac, not now! Fer Pete’s sake, take a hint ’n’ buck off, already!” she exclaimed, her tone holding a sob halfway up her throat. “Can’t ya see I’m already busy with yer sister?”
Mac reeled back in fright.
“You’re the worst!” Applejack shouted, because now it had turned into a competition over who could raise their voices the loudest, because the foal was awake and she was crying. “Quit yellin’ at him when ya should be yellin’ at me! I hate ya! Yer a terrible Granny ’nd I wish Ma ’n’ Pa were here instead’a you!”
Granny Smith’s face involuntarily contorted in anguish at the thought. “Yeah?”
“Yeah!”
“Well, so do I!”
Applejack’s argumentative demeanour dropped, and her eyes sparkled as she realised what they had both said. “W-What?”
“So do I, ya hear that?” Granny cried, and everything in the house stopped. “I’ve been tryin’ so hard t’ keep ya happy, Applejack, but clearly that ain’t workin’ no more, is it, sugar? Y’all’ve made it perfectly clear.” The green mare scrunched her tearful eyes shut and let them roll down her face. She couldn’t hide them anymore.
“G-Granny?”
“What?” she asked, like a dull blade trying to cut carrots. She sniffed, and wiped her nose messily.
“The baby’s quit cryin’.”
Stricken with panic, Granny quit her own blubbering and listened: the house was completely still, save for the ticking of the clock on the wall. Immediately, she got herself up, and cantered down the hall to the foal’s room with Applejack at her tail.
There, sat across the room from the bedroom door on the edge of Pear Butter and Bright Mac’s old bed, was Mac, with his baby sister in his skinny forelegs.
“She needed changing.”