Author's note: My apologies for the delay on this chapter. The story is wrapping up, as you can probably tell, and I'm finding it a little difficult to find my way to the conflict resolution. The next chapter may likewise be a while in coming.

A Horse Named Smith

Chapter 10

Haymarket, Equestria. Anno Caelestiae 906.

"...of course none of it is true, but where I come from, those were the stories that the ponies of a long, long time ago told because they didn't know any better." Strawberry was speaking to a rather larger audience: Angelflame's younger brother Cherub had joined them, as had a small group of wide-eyed little foals accompanied by anxious guardians. Strawberry had been telling the story of Pegasus, amending the story on the fly to omit all mention of humans. No-one needed to know that Poseidon was humanoid: let him just be a magical being who ruled the seas and created ponies in his spare time. Medusa and her gorgon sisters ... the idea of snakes in place of a mane was terrifying enough, and he didn't have to add that they were not, in fact, ponies underneath all those serpents. Bellerophon was dropped altogether: the idea of Pegasus ever having had a master seemed unnecessarily complicated, and Strawberry simply ascribed Bellerophon's exploits to Pegasus. In any case, he'd never been entirely clear as to which of the two had slain Chimaera, so perhaps it was better this way.

"I think it's awful," said one of the foals, fluttering his wings. "Of course pegasi didn't spring out of the body of a horrible monster..."

"Well, I think it would be quite wonderful if it were true," declared his sister stoutly. "Maybe if I stare hard enough, I could turn some pony into stone. Ooh, fear me!"

"Hah, I'd like to see you try!"

"What about unicorns?" said one of the other foals, a unicorn colt, as the two pegasus foals butted heads and tried to stare each other into stone. "Did you have stories about the first unicorn?"

"Ah, unicorns. Unicorns are a mystery." Strawberry wracked his brain, but could remember nothing but vague legends about virgins. He didn't really want to explain what a virgin was; he'd already severely bowdlerised the incident that had turned Medusa into a monster, and even then the subsequent blood-soaked story, with all its monsters and mayhem, had raised a couple of parental eyebrows. Foals really seemed to appreciate violence in fiction, though, even if their parents did not. "We didn't have unicorns where I came from..."

"No unicorns!" The exclamation drew the attention of a number of other guests, who wandered over to see what the matter was.

"Wait," said the pegasus filly who had revelled in the idea of being descended from a hideous monster, "you come from a place where there aren't any unicorns, and where ponies don't really know the first thing about pegasi? Are you from Earth?"

"Uh ... yes...?"

"I knew it!" The filly hopped around and flapped her wings excitedly. "I knew it! Of course not all the earth ponies came with Chancellor Puddinghead and Smart Cookie when they discovered Equestria! Mr Strawberry here is from there, he's from the place the earth pony founders came from! Is it really awful there? Is it still frozen over? Why didn't you follow Puddinghead and Smart Cookie? Swashbuckle, do you know what this means? Those lands that the founders came from, they're still out there! Why hasn't anyone gone out looking for them? As soon as I'm old enough, I'm going to go find them!"

"Honestly, Derring," sighed Swashbuckle, "you're always going on about going somewhere someday, and sometimes I wish you'd just go away already..."

"Aren't there any stories about things that actually happened?" asked Angelflame quickly, before the two pegasus foals could begin bickering again.

"Well..." Strawberry thought hard. "There's, uh, Bucephalus the Great..." Such an easy thing, switching in Bucephalus for Alexander. And it was all technically true, no? In any case, Strawberry was growing more and more comfortable with spinning these yarns for his audience—Pinstripe and Malachite had joined the audience by now, and Strawberry noted that Pinstripe seemed to be particularly interested in the story—and less and less anxious about finding a way home. What need had he now for Adam Pye's attentions? He was having the time of his life.

Cloudsdale, Equestria. Anno Caelestiae 987.

The life of the intrepid journalist and foreign correspondent takes one all over the kingdom, and one does not always manage to enjoy the comforts and joys of home as often as one would like. So, on the rare occasions when he could string two days of hometime together, the one thing Paperchase did not want to do was to find his only daughter, the pride of his pegasushood and the light of his life, sniffling into her hair behind a cloudbank in the backyard. Paperchase sighed and hunkered down beside her. "Bullies again?"

The filly nodded dejectedly.

Paperchase couldn't understand it. They came from a long line of explorers and adventurers; heroes, even. Uncle Freewheeler had single-hoofedly tamed an out-of-control cumulonimbus; Aunt Glory was still documenting the zebra tribes somewhere beyond even his own range. Cousin Blue Mane might not trumpet his exploits the way the rest of the family did, but Paperchase thought it awfully suspicious that the reserved, effete dilletante seemed to disappear every time the masked vigilante Bat Horse showed up. Some of them, himself included, had had enough adventure in their lifetimes to fill a book! (A book? Now there was an idea...) Courage was their family name ... and here was his daughter, his pride and joy, shrinking away from schoolyard confrontation. He'd somehow managed to breed a damsel-in-distress, and how that had happened was a mystery worthy of Cousin Fedora. It was probably all the fault of that registry clerk who'd botched the spelling of "Shutterfly".

"Look," he said gamely—he had no idea how to deal with these emotional issues, but "nothing ventured, nothing gained", and he wasn't about to be scared off so easily—"Look, you've got to keep your chin up and just look 'em in the eye when they try anything. That's all you have to do. All it takes is a little courage."

The filly shook her head. "I'm sorry," she barely whispered. "I'm sorry I'm such a disappointment."

"You're not a disappointment," Paperchase lied. He could kick himself. He was a journalist and he worked with words: he ought to know that "courage", being the family name, was probably not the right word to use in this situation—it implied that she had none, and that she was, therefore, unfit to be part of the family. He should have said "bravery", perhaps; or "guts". Not "courage". "Do you know," he said, changing tactics, "there's this story your grandmother told me, which she heard from her father, who heard it from ... well, never mind that. The story goes that a long time ago there was this pony called Medusa..."

Telling the story took a while, especially as Paperchase had no intention of skipping any lurid details. Just because he was a serious, responsible reporter didn't mean he didn't enjoy a spot of yellow journalism every now and again.

As he pronounced the happy-ever-after, his daughter gazed pensively off into the sunset, and said, "I don't want to turn any pony into stone. That would be mean. And besides, those meanies are pegasi too, so what if they turned me into stone..."

Paperchase had to admit defeat. If his daughter did not think that being descended from such a fearsome mythical monster was the coolest thing ever, as he and most of his cousins had when they'd first heard it, he was plumb out of ideas. "Well," he said gruffly, "that's just the story I heard. You'd better come inside: it's almost time for supper."

After Paperchase had left, his daughter fluffed up a bit of cloud into a lump and looked at it thoughtfully. It looked a little like one of the bullies at school who'd been so mean to her. What if...? She fixed the lump of cloud with a fiercest glare she could muster. It would be mean, true, but they were mean first and it would serve them right if ... if ... no, no pony deserved that. She blinked, wiped the tears away, and fluttered back to the house.

Behind her, the lump of cloud toppled over and shattered in a distinctly un-cloudlike fashion.

Haymarket, Equestria. Anno Caelestiae 906.

In another part of the hall, Mister Smith was making a retreat, as respectably as he could, towards an open window. Dancing with Primrose had been surprisingly pleasant; he wasn't sure if it was because he no longer had to contend with Malachite's instructions, or if it had been something else entirely. And yet, there had also been a certain sense of claustrophobia that made his head swim. He fiddled with his tie—he had long since ceased to marvel at the articulation of his forelegs—but knew immediately that that had nothing to do with it.

Perhaps he was falling ill.

He stuck his head out and took a deep breath of cool night air. He could smell lilac and lavender and damp earth. In the background, he could hear Strawberry talking away, his speech punctuated by the odd exclamation or question. Good for Strawberry, Mister Smith thought. Good that at least one of us is making such a great success of the evening. Hah, maybe you ought to put in a good word for me!

"Something wrong, Smith?" Happy Trails had wandered up beside him without his noticing, a glass of punch balanced on his head. "Care for some punch?"

Mister Smith eyed the glass warily. It looked a little too delicate to be gripped between two hooves, and it had no handles. He shook his head. "Thanks, I think I'll survive."

"As you wish." Happy somehow bounced the glass off his head and onto one hoof, and took a long sip of it. "It's pretty good stuff, made from wild berries. Grandpa's really gone all out to impress Pinstripe: you should see the refreshment table."

Mister Smith spared the refreshment table no more than a glance, then looked back around the hall, wondering, for no reason he could think of, where Primrose had got to. It didn't look as though she was in the crowd surrounding Strawberry. Strawberry, he could see, had been moved to stand up on the bandstand while the musicians took their break. "Strawberry seems to have made quite a hit with the townsfolk," Mister Smith said.

"Who knew he had such a lot of stories to tell," commented Happy as he drained his glass. "And you seem to have made quite a hit with my sister."

"Beg pardon?"

Happy grinned and poked him in the ribs. "I think you'd have to be blind not to see the way she was looking at you out there on the dance floor. I think it's my brotherly duty, by the way, to inform you that horrible things will be done to you if you break her heart..."

Mister Smith's thoughts went straight to Balderdash. He remembered the overheard conversation between Primrose and Cobblestone, about Balderdash's courtship. Could it be that Balderdash was jealous, and that this was the motive behind his treatment of Mister Smith and Strawberry? Surely he couldn't be jealous of them both. Why should Strawberry suffer because Primrose seemed likely to prefer Mister Smith over Balderdash? Mister Smith scanned the room again, this time noting that Balderdash also seemed to have disappeared. It was a little worrisome. Mister Smith was no stranger to the violence born of jealousy: he'd seen his share duels and brawls through the various strata of London society, and if these ponies were anything like humans in their thinking, it would not surprise him if some that same behaviour repeated itself among them.

It might be a good idea to go looking for Primrose, and he said as much to Happy. Happy had other ideas, though: "Looking out for Primrose is my job, Smith. You want to go mingle with the guests. That was the whole point of getting you and Strawberry in here, wasn't it? Here, you go have a game or two of Pin-the-tail-on-the-pony, and I'll go look." Happy shoved Mister Smith over to the game, and before Mister Smith could protest, he had a blue tail stuck in his mouth and a blindfold over his eyes.

It was a silly, silly game, Mister Smith had thought when Malachite first introduced them to it the night before, and the blindfold triggered a panicky feeling in the pit of his stomach, which he tried hard to suppress. He was spun around two or three times, and he heard a strange pony's voice—Happy had evidently gone off in search of Primrose and left him here—tell him cheerfully to just go forward, the target was right in front of him.

Mister Smith really didn't feel that he had the time for this. He rolled the pin in his mouth, noting that it was about the size of one of the rock chips he'd been handling for the past week or so, and spat. He felt a queer sense of deja vu as he did so.

A gasp went up from around him, and he heard the drumming of several hooves on the floor. Someone whipped off the blindfold—thank goodness!—and pointed out that he'd gotten the closest to the pictured pony's rump of all the players so far, all without having actually approached the picture. "Do that again!" cried someone, "Blind Spot wasn't looking, he's got to see this! Hey, Cobblestone! Cobblestone, come look!"

Against his will, Mister Smith found himself as much the centre of attention as Strawberry.

London, England. Anno Domini 1865.

A hush came over the pub as Jack Sloan was blindfolded and spun around three times. "Might want to get your heads down, boys," said a heckler in the crowd, "no telling where the darts will end up. Not but I ain't got the fullest confidence in your skills, Jack!"

Jack said nothing, but lifted a dart and let fly. Three times he did this, and each time he heard the solid thunk of a steel point sinking into elm. A cheer went up as the third dart struck home. Mr Cobb, the publican, removed the blindfold and shoved a pint of stout into Jack's hands. "What did I tell you?" Mr Cobb declared, shouting to be heard about the din, "Two 20s and the bull's eye! All you nay-sayers can pay up now; the rest of you layabouts wait while I tally your winnings."

Congratulatory pats on the back were coming from all around, mostly those who'd had the good fortune of betting on his success. "Amazing thing, Jack! I know I ain't challenging you to a game any time soon. How'd you get so good? What's your secret?"

Jack laughed. "I always had a good deal too much time on my hands, back when I was a lord's coachman—before his lordship ruined himself on cards, I mean, and lost it all to the creditors. My mum always said idle hands were the devil's workshop, so I kept 'em busy with throwing darts." Jack took a deep draught of his stout, and reminisced fondly of those old days. There had been one horse in particular who'd always seemed interested his solo dart games, neighing appreciatively when he hit his target and snorting when he did not. It had an odd name, that horse: Mister Jones or Mister Brown—no, Mister Smith, that was it. Jack would have bought that horse if he'd had the money at the time, but he hadn't, and it had gone to one of the stuffy lawyers who'd handled his lordship's downfall. Jack wondered if the lawyer still had the horse, and if not, then where was it now.

Haymarket, Equestria. Anno Caelestiae 906.

At that moment, Primrose and Balderdash were having a private discussion out in the garden.

"You're too cruel, Primrose," Balderdash was saying. "Here I am, practically dying for your sake, and will you even spare me a kind word? Would you have me lasso the moon down for you? I'd do that, if you'd only smile at me once..."

"Balderdash, stop it," Primrose said uncomfortably. It had probably been a mistake to let the stallion take her outside, but dancing with Mister Smith had, as she had expected, raised her temperature rather more than she was used to, and she needed air. "I'm really flattered, but you know I don't see you that way."

"Are you sure? Look, perhaps this will change your mind..."

Primrose gasped. Balderdash had drawn out of his vest pocket a necklace set with a magnificent, heart-shaped fire ruby. Its facets caught the moonlight and glowed with a soft radiance; it made her instinctively want to cup it between her hooves and hold it close to her own heart, and warm herself in its light. "It's ... it's beautiful!"

"Only because you are too, darling. Shall I put it on you?"

What could she say? What could she do? She watched as Balderdash brought the ruby close and began to fasten the necklace around her neck. The ruby rested warmly at the base of her neck; she could almost see herself glowing in its light. Half-mesmerised, she almost missed the fact that Balderdash was bending his knees in the classic wedding-proposal stance.

"Primrose Path, will you—"

"Don't! Don't say it!" Primrose pulled back, the spell broken. Suddenly, she wished more than anything that she'd had the presence of mind to refuse the ruby when Balderdash had first offered it to her; now it hung on her neck like a bleeding albatross, and she fumbled to find the catch to remove it.

Balderdash drew back, crestfallen. "What do you have against me, Primrose? Haven't I always been the perfect gentlecolt? Haven't I always put you first, in all things?" He paused, and frowned. "Is there some pony else?"

"What? No. There's no pony else."

"It's Mister Smith, isn't it?" When Primrose failed to answer, Balderdash went on: "I saw the way you were looking at him when you danced. You don't know that pony, Primrose; I do. He's a shiftless, lazy, lying scoundrel who should be grateful that I've kept him on at the farm as long as I have—"

"That isn't true!"

"Oh, it's very true. I can tell you about all the times I've had to cover up for him and his good-for-nothing friend when they've shirked off work. I really should be imposing penalties of some kind, but—"

"Balderdash?" There was a dangerous quality to Primrose's tone, now, which Balderdash had never heard before, and he felt obliged to stop in mid-sentence. "Balderdash, how much are you paying them?"

"It's all in the accounting books, love. That's not important."

"It is to me. I'm going to speak to Grandpa." Primrose held out the fire ruby necklace to Balderdash, and, when he refused to take it, tucked it into her tail and turned to trot back into the hall.