Chapter Two
The streets of Ponyville were not laid out neatly, but tended to curve and double back on themselves or suddenly dead end just when they should have joined with another major fairway. But Kimono was never in a hurry and didn't mind that his path took him zigzagging halfway across town before circling around and heading out of the suburbs.
Finally the houses began to thin out and the old stone wall rose into view. Leaving the cobblestone road behind him, his footsteps fell upon grass, trampled down into well-worn paths. Kimono drifted along the rows of graves, each marked simply with a gleaming black stone, each one engraved with the name and symbol of the deceased.
The plots began to thin out after a while until finally he walked across almost half a field without seeing a grave. He had not wanted her to be crowded in with the others and he had not wanted to mourn in the eyes of strangers. So he knelt alone with the soft young grass tickling at his knees as he carefully placed the spray of crocuses on her headstone before removing the withered tulips of yesterday and sitting beneath the cherry tree on the rise.
Sitting and thinking.
"Kimono?"
"Yes, dear?"
"I'm going to have a foal."
He was too happy to speak.
He lost himself in his ruminations, replaying his memories and sinking into the past, so that he was not certain of the time when he heard a familiar creak-rattle-rattle. He turned his head, disturbing a collection of white petals that had settled on his sleek muzzle; the three-sided funeral cart was making its way through the cemetery as part of a distinctly odd procession.
It was not unusual to see the cart lurching through the tamped down grass, burdened with a figure wrapped in white strips of cloth bound by thin, black string made of silk (for the rich) or simple twine (for the poor.) The cart had appeared more and more frequently of late, in fact, as the result of some sickness that had emerged on the north side of town. The pale green pony in the harness might have been any other bereaved relative bearing a loved one to rest, except for being slightly smaller than most.
No, what made it odd were the others. Six white colts of varying sizes marching on the left, each one with hair striped red and white and a candy cane symbol. Six purple fillies similarly ranging in height marching on the right, each one with hair of orange, pink, and white and a floral symbol.
Quite the family.
Everyone knew that colts were born resembling their fathers and fillies resembling their mothers, until at last they reached adolescence and developed their own colors and symbols. But ponies had such a low birth rate that it had never before occurred to Kimono to wonder what happened when two fillies were born to the same couple, or two colts. Well, apparently they still looked like their mother or father. But six! Of each!
Physically he didn't move, but mentally he shook his head in amazement.
He watched them solemnly processing, each colt with a formal black ribbon tied in his tail and each filly with one tied in her mane. (By tradition, the females should have had a ribbon in their manes and their tails, but with so many young ones, surely such an oversight could be forgiven.)
The smallest of the children, one of the purple fillies, tottered awkwardly on the stilt-like legs of early childhood, constantly checking her feet, but the young ponies at the immediate left and right of the cart-puller were really too old to be considered foals. Indeed, as the group drew nearer, Kimono saw that the symbols of those two--the symbols they had shared with their parents--were already fading away. Soon they would have their own colors, their own symbols, their own names. Kimono thought he could see faint splotches of blue already beginning to show through the adolescent male's white coat.
Twelve babies. Well. Wonders never ceased.
Kimono proceeded to shut away the entire incongruity in the back of him mind as "the exception to the rule" and turned back to the familiar rectangle of pale green grass below him. Cherry blossoms descended around him, each one arranged with five perfect, overlapping petals.
"Kimono?"
"Yes, darling?"
"I'm--"
Creak-rattle-creak.
Kimono started from his reverie to find that cart, corpse, and mourners had processed to his remote corner of the cemetery. The babies stood solemnly in their frayed black ribbons, only fidgeting a little as the green stallion knelt and backed out of his harness, which folded and collapsed without his form to fill it. He straightened and turned as the sun highlighted his light pink mane and made the white parts of his peppermint disc symbols seem to blaze. His eyes had a touch of sadness in them, but he smiled encouragingly at the younger ponies as he said, "Well, here we are."
The foals nodded hesitantly at his matter-of-fact voice.
"Everyone okay?" He glanced up and down the rows of diminishing youngsters. Most of them nodded, some with eyes downcast, some gazing up at him. One of the white colts mumbled something about how he didn't like wearing a ribbon, but he scuffed at the grass as he said it, clearly not expecting a response. Unexpectedly it was the oldest filly who let out a muffled sob.
"S-sorry," she choked out, wiping at the tears sending dark streaks down her cheeks.
"Hey . . . hey . . . it's all right." The green pony nuzzled her. "It's all right to cry, Baby Tiger Lily."
She gave a wavering smile and butted his shoulder with her head. "You know I hate being called 'Baby'."
Her face suddenly creased and it seemed like she might break down again, but the young stallion simply nodded and said with mock seriousness, "Yes, I know, BLT," which prompted her to butt him again and exclaim, "And that's even worse!" She straightened, having regained her composure.
The younger ponies slumped in relief, then tensed as a thin wail rose from the back of their ranks. From his hillside, Kimono stretched his neck to catch sight of the youngest baby plumping down on her little purple haunches and squeezing her eyes shut as she bawled. Her siblings gathered around her anxiously, trying to hush her (and one unwisely tried to cover her mouth and was bitten on the leg for his efforts.)
The green stallion pushed carefully through their ranks and lowered down to his front knees so he was at her level. "Tigg--hey. What's the matter, sweetie?"
Her eyes brimmed with tears as her deep purple eyes met his violet ones. "I want Mama!"
"We all miss her." He closed his eyes for an instant, smiling gently as he opened them again. "But she has to go away now. She has to go on a long journey . . ."
"Then I wanna go too!" The little face scrunched up as she pouted.
"No, honey . . . you have to stay here," he told her. He leaned in closer and added in a conspiratorial whisper. "Someone has to make sure BLT doesn't get a fat head after her Naming Day."
"A fat head?" the baby whispered back, stretching her neck to stare intently at her oldest sister, who sighed in exasperation.
"That's right. We don't want her strutting around with her nose in the air just because she doesn't have 'Baby' plunked in front of her name, do we?"
The foal shook her purple head. "She'd run into things."
"Exactly. You'll keep an eye on her and tell me if her noggin starts expanding, won't you?"
The tiny filly nodded, never taking her eyes off him.
"Promise?" He raised an eyebrow.
"I promise, Minty," she said solemnly.
"Good." He straightened and looked at the young ponies gathered around them. "Now let's find Dad."