Author's Notes:

Another week over, Old Sim shares something special with the Cane family and the reminisce about Talib's larger-than-life grandfather, the formidable Baba Azhar.

Finally, the week’s toil was nearly over. Market day had come around again and the two lumberponies were up before dawn, as usual, and loading up the carts with their goods. Talib’s parents surprised them with a visit, and Old Sim gave them a quick tour of the workshop and warehouse, particularly pointing out his woodwork, which delighted them. It was the end of Talib’s first fortnight and, as tradition demanded, his first pay would be going to his parents. They invited Old Sim around for a late lunch after market to celebrate, and he accepted with carefully-controlled pleasure, probably struggling for restraint at the thought of a feast prepared by the two Cane parents.

Carts loaded and parents farewelled, Sim and Talib made the familiar journey in to Ponyville, and the day soon settled into a rhythm familiar to Talib from the previous week. This time, however, Wood Pile informed them that lumber prices were stable, since Progress Group’s output had not changed much – Talib had sensed a slight tension from Old Sim on the way to the warehouse, and had been dreading his response if prices dropped again. They set up in the market and soon incense was flying off the shelf. Talib’s idiosyncratic wood carvings again proved a source of fascination to the bright-eyed and sociable market-goers of Ponyville, and the week’s products were all sold. Talib was appreciative of Old Sim’s wisdom in pursuing these side-lines; the charcoal, incense, furniture and now wood carvings were all helping to balance the drop in lumber prices.

This time, when Talib went off to find some food, he actively avoided the Apple stand since he was having second thoughts about his gift. He knew, of course, that Applejack, though perhaps fond of him, would not be his Very Special Somepony – she was a mature businesspony, and he was some young colt fresh out of school, his judgement addled by his first foal-crush. If he was honest with himself, he didn’t really even know her that well – they’d exchanged a few words during casual encounters, but that was about it. He knew his affection, though sincere and certainly real enough, was nevertheless shallow and not based on a real understanding of who she was, but mostly directed at some idea in his head. She deserved better, and Talib, already habitually self-conscious, felt truly embarrassed at the lack of tact he’d displayed by making and giving her his carving. Thankfully, Applejack did not seek out the Timber stand either, perhaps because she was too busy. Or perhaps, thought Talib, because she’s having similar thoughts.

Market day wound down uneventfully, and the unladen ponies returned to Old Sim’s cottage, the early afternoon sun still warm but the air cool, and dropped off the carts at the workshop. The lumberpony locked up and headed back towards the cottage, gesturing Talib to follow. As they went through the bonsai garden, Talib dawdled a little to study the fascinating dwarf trees. He wondered if they had been started by the enigmatic Pappy Timbers, but some of them were older even than that. Talib wondered where they could have come from, but was interrupted by Old Sim calling to him impatiently, and he hurried inside the rough stone cottage.

He walked right into a calculating stare from his mentor, as if Old Sim was trying to come to some decision. Ambushed, Talib shifted uncomfortably and looked away. His employer’s eyes narrowed, and his question surprised the young colt.

“Talib. Can I trust you?” His expression was deadly serious.

Talib could not guess where this was going. His instinct was, as usual, to formulate some carefully-worded reply that would discourage any further social entanglement, without outright saying “no”, but something stopped him. First, Old Sim was not given to that kind of subtlety, and would either press for a definite answer, or decide that one had been given. That kind of black-or-white thinking was foreign to Talib but he knew that if his employer decided Talib could not be trusted, he would be swiftly out of a job. Second, it was a serious question asked earnestly, and deserved a considered, honest reply. What’s got into me? Talib wondered. The glib half-truths normally came to his tongue faster than thought. Well, whatever Old Sim wanted to bring him into, Talib would go along for the ride. He nodded firmly to the old stallion.

Old Sim had noted the careful consideration, but still wasn’t satisfied.

“I want your word you will not tell a soul what I am about to show you.”

Talib, more perplexed than ever, gave his word. His mentor went to the front door and peered suspiciously all around and across the open grassland toward Ponyville, before shutting and locking it. He then went to the rear door and did the same, closing all the curtains in the cottage for good measure. Only a fraction of the bright day now reached them from outside, and the piles of bric-a-brac turned from distinct items into consolidated shadows on which the mind could project strange-looking, imagined beings. In the gloom, Old Sim went to a perfectly ordinary-looking floorboard, produced a thin blade from who-knew-where and carefully prised it open.

Talib could tell there was a space underneath, but how wide and deep it was impossible to see in the murky half-light. Old Sim reached in, apparently not needing to see his target, and produced a small bag of bits which he tossed to Talib.

“There’s your pay, Talib.”

Talib nodded. “Thank you, Sim.” It seemed a lot of secrecy for an apprentice’s fortnightly wages. Talib knew Old Sim didn’t keep many bits on hand – each week he deposited their takings into the perfectly respectable First Ponyville Bank. Whatever he was so paranoid about under there, bits weren’t it.

Talib’s suspicions were confirmed when Old Sim reached back into the inky space and carefully, reverently extracted a medium-sized bottle of amber glass. He blew the dust off it and rubbed it with a forelimb, peering at the hoof-written label. Nodding, Old Sim pushed some clutter aside from a table and set the bottle down. He replaced the floorboard and opened up the cottage again, dispelling the sudden, weird tension which had formed.

“What is it?” Talib asked, uncertain if Old Sim’s mystery-charade would extend as far as leaving the thing nameless.

Old Sim, however, picked the bottle up gently and examined it in the light before turning to Talib.

“Birch beer.”

Talib opened his mouth uncertainly, not sure if some comment was expected.

“I’ve never heard of it,” he said, deciding on truthfulness again.

“I’d wager that almost nopony ‘round here has, if they’ve forgotten my pappy. Even back in Trottingham it was a family secret. Pappy brought the recipe with him, and he’d learnt it from his pappy. In the springtime, when the birch sap rises, maybe I’ll teach you, too. My brother, Huon, doesn’t have a birch tree for miles, out on his pine plantation.”

It took a while for the significance of this to sink in for Talib. Old Sim had no children – and nopony to pass the recipe on to. With his brother unable to keep up the tradition it would die with Old Sim, unless he found somepony he could trust to carry it on. Apparently, he was considering Talib for that role. He might not give much show of affection, but it seemed Old Sim thought of Talib as more than just an apprentice. Talib became keenly aware of something that should have been obvious sooner: he was not just learning a trade. He was entering somepony’s life, and would be the custodian of Old Sim’s memory long after the old stallion was gone. Having tried, for most of his life, to avoid involvement in other ponies’ lives, but simultaneously craving their acceptance and approval, Talib was overwhelmed with conflicting emotions. It felt like breaking the water’s surface into the noise and light of the air, after holding his breath for an eternity on the bottom of a lake. He could not speak.

Old Sim watched the struggle play out on his apprentice’s face. Whether he followed it or not, his craggy features broke into a surprisingly beautiful smile.

“Come on, colt. Time for lunch.”

The walk to Sugarcane Farm passed quickly in the still-warm sunlight, though Old Sim remarked they were due for a colder change any week now as Autumn reached them on the weather schedule. Talib hadn’t been back to the farm for a week, having sent a note to his parents pleading overwork and claiming he’d be sleeping at Sim’s, and as they passed through the open gate and up the path to the kitchen entrance a sense of familiar ease came over him. They ducked into the flagstone kitchen, warmed by the oven, just as Ghaliya and Melaco were putting the finishing touches on the celebratory lunch. Seeing him, they cried out in delight and he went over to where they were working, tangled up in aprons and oven mitts, and nuzzled them affectionately. They extricated themselves from their preparations, wiping their hooves on tea towels, as Old Sim stepped forward and shook their hooves. As Talib’s parents returned to the food, chatting with Old Sim, Talib asked where Bianca was.

“She’s in the workshop, of course,” said Melaco with a grin.

Excusing himself, Talib went back outside to find her. The workshop’s large double-doors were thrown open to make maximum use of the daylight, but despite the illumination, when Talib first walked in all he could see was the Rhum Shot, tools and work-sheets spread haphazardly on the floor around it. Looking closer, he saw two familiar pale blue hind-limbs sticking out from under the racer.

“Hi, Bianca.”

Though startled, his older sister had learnt the hard way not to make sudden movements while working under the speed cart. She carefully slid out, spattered with machine oil and gripping a wrench in her teeth, and revealed a happy grin.

“Talid!” she managed around the wrench, before spitting it out onto the work sheet.

She stood up and, covered in grease, made to gingerly shake his hoof but he pushed closer and nuzzled her fondly, not caring if his coat got stained. Initially surprised, she relaxed and returned his affections, then stepped back and looked at him.

“What’s got into you?” she asked.

Talib shrugged, knowing what she meant – in his habitual reserve, he normally would have accepted the hoofshake. Bianca examined him more closely.

“You’re looking well,” she said, noticing the extra muscle he was beginning to put on, “but tired.” The bags under his eyes, the result of his unceasing dawn and dusk work on the cabin and experiments, were obvious. Her expression turned fierce, protective, “Old Sim hasn’t been over-working you, has he?”

“Well, a bit,” Talib flexed and stretched, feeling the now-background soreness, “but that’s not the reason.” He told Bianca about his cabin and the experiments he was setting up, leaving out the bit about the snares. Since they were young the Cane children had shared a close confidence, growing up on the somewhat lonely farm without a neighbourhood of other children to play with. Although Bianca, unlike Talib, was socially confident and popular, she’d maintained an attitude of protective affection towards her sometimes-vulnerable younger sibling. He knew he could usually trust her with his plans, but if she thought he was in danger she might feel compelled to tell their parents.

However, just because she’d keep his confidence didn’t mean she approved. Bianca shook her head slowly, despairingly, as she rehashed an old argument. “I’ll never understand why you’re so obsessed with this. It’s not healthy, you spending so much time on your own, or with just that crotchety old grump for company.”

Talib bristled at this disdain for Old Sim. “Actually, he’s not that bad. I’m learning a lot, and we usually get along pretty well. You’d be surprised at some of the stuff he says; there’s a lot more to him than most ponies think. I guess because he keeps to himself they only see the obvious things, like how he’s so gruff when you first talk to him.”

“That’s just the way ponies are,” said Bianca, “when they see him being curt, and without the chance to get to know him, some will give him the benefit of the doubt but a lot will just dismiss him as some rude old recluse. And who can blame them, if that’s all he ever shows them?” Talib began to protest, but Bianca interrupted, “I’m not saying it’s ideal. It’s just the way things are, and if he doesn’t like it, he needs to make some changes.” She looked craftily at Talib, saying, “The same thing happens with you, you know.”

“What do you mean?” he said, cautiously.

“All you ever show other ponies is some apologetic, awkward young colt who doesn’t think he’s worthy of anypony’s notice and has no interest in them anyway. Maybe not deliberately, but still – most ponies won’t bother looking any further, that’s all they’ll ever know about you. Not that you should care too much what these one-off acquaintances think, but the point is it pushes ponies away, makes them disinclined to get to know you better in the first place. That’s not helping you any, and the longer you leave it like that, the more opportunities you’ll miss.”

For the second time that day, Talib went even quieter than usual. He’d heard some of this advice before, of course, but never spoken by his sister with such fervour. Something was clearly on her mind, and his thought was confirmed when she continued with an awkward segue.

“Speaking of sociability, have you decided whether you’re going to the Spring Dance yet?”

Talib sighed. Of course. He was not going to engage with this one, and reached for his best laconic Big McIntosh impression.

“Nope.”

Bianca persevered. “You mean nope you haven’t decided, or nope you’re not going?”

“Haven’t decided.”

She looked at him, clearly frustrated, but shrugged and let the matter drop. What the hay? thought Talib, that was way too easy. Something was definitely up, but he decided to let sleeping dogs lie. Undoubtedly, he’d find out soon enough. He suggested they go in, and helped Bianca clean up the workshop before returning to the kitchen. Their parents and Old Sim made a cosy picture, all sitting around the small wooden table, sharing mint tea and chatting in the mid-afternoon light. They looked up when Talib and Bianca entered.

“Well, now that the mechanic and the lumberpony have joined us, I suppose we can go in for lunch,” said Melaco with humour.

“That reminds me,” said Talib, finally taking off his pannier and resting it out of the way in a corner, “this is for you.” He pulled out the small bag of bits Old Sim had given him, his first ever pay, and placed it on the table in front of his parents with ceremony, finishing with an ironic bow that didn’t quite come off.

“Thank you Talib,” said Ghaliya, “your father and I are very proud of you.” She said this whole-heartedly, and if there was still some lingering disappointment over his apparent choice of career, it did not show. “And thank you, Sim, for taking him under your wing like this. We know you’ve never wanted an apprentice before.”

There was a question in those thanks, though it was unclear whether Ghaliya was asking it overtly. The ambiguity, at least, was no accident – subtlety was a highly developed art with Talib’s mother. Either way, Old Sim spotted it. By way of reply, he turned to Talib.

“Do you know why I accepted you as an apprentice, Talib?”

“No,” replied Talib, “though I had wondered.”

“It was the apple.”

The shame of his unsolicited and oh-so-obvious present to Applejack surged immediately to the front of Talib’s mind, kicking his ears flat and making his heart skip a beat. But that had been after he’d been apprenticed. His brow furrowed as he thought hard, to that day in the market when he’d been taken on.

“The apple I was eating?”

Old Sim nodded, not explaining any further, and Talib’s family looked confused. Talib remembered Old Sim asking him whether he always ate the whole thing, core and all. When he’d said yes, he’d been hired. What in Equestria was the significance of that?

“A good reference from Pa Walnut didn’t hurt, neither,” Old Sim added, somewhat alleviating the Canes’ confusion. But he said no more, and that, apparently, was the explanation they’d have to be satisfied with. Breaking the silence, Ghaliya again suggested they go through for lunch.

The Canes’ dining room was only used when, as now, they had guests. In the spacious but otherwise functional farmhouse, it was the one area, apart from the front entrance, where attention had been given to formality as well as comfort. The ponies entered through the back way, from the kitchen, but the front opened onto the entry room of the house at the front door – even less frequently used than the dining room itself – where visiting ponies who had travelled far, such as Melaco’s parents, could make use of coat racks and umbrella stands and be relieved of luggage. Melaco and Ghaliya ushered them to their seats at the table and then returned to the kitchen to bring in the food. Old Sim looked around appreciatively at the timber panelling, a cream-coloured wood, which replaced the plaster seen throughout the rest of the house. The rectangular table could seat ten at a squeeze, and today they necessarily only occupied one end of it. Old Sim had been honoured with the seat at the head of the table, and then cajoled and bullied into accepting it.

“It’s been a long time since I was in here,” he said reflectively, “never did find out what kind of wood that was.” Unable to resist, he got up and examined the vibrant, shimmering grain on the walls. “Your grandda said it were here when they bought the place, off’ve some fool pony who’d come out here, spent up big, and decided real quick it weren’t for them.”

Talib sat up. “You knew my grandfather?” he asked.

“Everypony knew Talib Azhar, colt. I just happened to live closer than most.”

Talib’s grandfather, after whom the younger had been named, had already been old when he’d had Ghaliya, and had died when his grandson was only a couple of years into school. Talib had precious few memories of him, but recalled a massive presence, a towering personality compressed into a regular-sized pony body. Memories of his grandfather were always linked to the stories he loved to tell: incredible, endless, interlinked stories of far-off places and times, strange beings and miraculous events; deep mysteries at the heart of the world. And poetry, and songs in unfamiliar languages. Several years after he’d died, the indomitable Grandmother Azhar, still relatively young, had re-married and moved to Fillydelphia where she coordinated fieldwork at an agricultural college.

Before Talib could ask more, Ghaliya entered with a large dish, having caught the last of this exchange.

“Oh, Sim,” she said lightly, “you’re just as bad as Talib for understatement. You and baba were fast friends!”

Old Sim shrugged, then nodded, “Aye, we were, at that.” He returned to his seat.

Ghaliya put the dish on the table and, on cue, Talib’s mouth starting watering. The dish had several sections, and encouraged sharing: in one section, glossy black olives; in another, zesty humus and in the third the smoky, savoury eggplant dip called baba ghanoush. Melaco entered with a large basket of flatbread and a bowl of tabbouleh - a simple but delicious salad of cracked wheat, parsley, tomato, onion and lemon. They all passed around some bread and started digging in.

Talib took advantage his home-turf confidence. “How did you meet my grandfather?” he inquired of Old Sim.

The burly brown stallion looked up from his salad reluctantly. “He met pappy and me in the Forest one time, when I was out working as a young colt,” he said simply.

“Mmm,” murmured Ghaliya around a mouthful of bread and humus, “he used to love the Forest.” Talib’s ears twitched, interested.

“Aye, he did.” Talib expected it to end there, but Old Sim, either comfortable in the presence of a family he’d known since a colt, or feeling the social obligation of the occasion, came out of his shell a little. “He used to wander through the Forest all the time before you came along, Ghaliya. Sometimes be gone for days at a time. I walked with him for a day on occasion, just when he’d stay near to Ponyville. I’d be looking mainly at the trees but Baba Azhar noticed everything. He’d be composing in his head as we walked, tales and poems and songs, and would share the scraps as they came to him. By the end of the day he’d have a huge amount of prose and verse kicking around. One day I listened to him compose, from dawn to dusk, an entire thirty verse re-telling of the history of Ponyville, and I never saw him write a bit of it down. Quite a feat.” He brooded for a moment. “It was a strange tale, though, more fantasy than history. The Apple family bit was there, of course, but he went back further, much further, and added some fairy-tale about an ancient city, founded long ago in the Everfree Forest, and its destruction.”

Talib felt excitement rising in his chest. “Well, there are ruins in the Forest, right?”

“The Ancient Castle of the Royal Pony Sisters, sure, most ponies know about that. But a city?” Old Sim shook his head. “Nope. Somepony would have found it.”

Talib persevered. “Pa Walnut said you’d found some ruins, though…” he hesitated, “…with an Ouroboros on them?”

“Oh he did, did he?” Old Sim frowned, “Well, I found a pile of rubble, sure. And there was some kind of circle carved somewhere there. But it was too worn to make out, and it sure weren’t no city. Your grandaddy’s story was just that – a story.”

Bianca smiled at the memory, sipping her sour cherry juice poured from the carafe on the table. She’d been a little older than Talib, and had clearer recollections of their grandfather. “Yes, I remember with his stories you could never quite tell what was fact and what was fiction. He was never one to let the truth get in the way of a good tale.”

“He described it to me differently, once,” said Ghaliya, turning her gaze to the distant words of past decades, “that the story was its own truth, a way to a different kind of comprehension, less cerebral and closer to the bone. You could provide ponies with the facts, he said, and they’d still understand less than if you got them to feel, to experience their way to knowledge through a good story.” Talib shifted doubtfully at this, but his mother didn’t notice. “You’re wrong about one thing though, Sim – he wrote everything down. We still have all his books and notes. But he only wrote in Griffon.”

Old Sim’s expression, previously contented as he munched on some bread and olives, darkened at this. “I don’t know why he persisted with that foul tongue.”

Ghaliya smiled to show she was not offended. “He always said it was a versatile language. He could make it guttural and harsh or lyrical and melodic as he pleased. I think there was some nostalgia and sentiment in it for him, as well. He always said his years in the Griffon Empire were the most… interesting of his long life.” She sighed with regret, “I wish I’d learnt it, now. At the time I hadn’t the slightest interest.”

“His stories put me off griffons permanently,” said Old Sim, “with their bloodthirsty combat sports and their political skullduggery.” Talib got the feeling he would have spat if he hadn’t been indoors.

“But also their honour, their loyalty and their rich artistic traditions,” countered Ghaliya, still smiling.

Old Sim merely grunted. “Do you still have his oud?” he eventually asked, referring to the guitar-like instrument at which Baba Azhar had been an acknowledged master.

“I do,” replied Ghaliya, “though I don’t measure up to baba, of course. Talib plays, too,” she said, gesturing to her son. Talib and the others had been sitting back, busily eating and enjoying the reminiscences of the two ponies who had been closest to the imposing Baba Azhar. Talib started at, he feared, being volunteered for a demonstration later.

“I only dabble, really,” he said, truthfully.

“It’s funny,” said Melaco, finally chiming in, “except for your fascination with the Forest-” Talib gulped and looked guiltily at Old Sim, hoping his parents still believed his research largely theoretical, “you and your grandfather were so different. You’re so reserved and bookish, while Azhar was larger than life; a teller of tales, a singer of songs, a drifter and I hear, in his younger days, a bit of a rogue. It’s remarkable your grandmother ever got him to settle down on the farm, when he wandered out here to see the Zap Apple trees.” He looked fondly at Ghaliya, before adding, “Though perhaps I can understand that last part.”

She tutted at him but couldn’t help smiling, and Old Sim looked on approvingly. Their children, however, rolled their eyes. The conversation had seen the end of the entrees so Ghaliya and Melaco brought in the mains: steamed rice made fragrant with saffron and cashews; squash and cabbage, stuffed with pine nuts and herbs and cooked in tomato, all served with plain yoghurt and pickles. Even though he was inside, Old Sim looked around suspiciously before getting up and retrieving the bottle of birch beer from his pannier, left in the kitchen, and placing it on the table.

“Oh, Sim,” said Melaco when he noticed, “you didn’t have to bring anything.”

“What is it?” asked Bianca.

“Birch beer,” was the old lumberpony’s smug reply.

Melaco’s eyes widened in delight and Ghaliya smiled knowingly.

“Well…” she said wonderingly, “I haven’t had birch beer since – since the last Spring Dance when your pappy was still making it! I hadn’t realised you’d been keeping it up.”

“Been keeping my hoof in,” he said, slyly.

Old Sim did the honours, removing the cork carefully so it didn’t pop and cause the brew to froth over, then pouring a small glass for everypony present. That was it; the bottle held no more. He put it aside for later re-use.

“To what shall we toast?” asked Melaco, eyes twinkling as he raised his glass.

“To fond family memories,” said Old Sim seriously, and Melaco nodded. Their glasses and eyes all made contact, and everypony repeated the toast in chorus before drinking.

Melaco, Ghaliya and Old Sim sighed and smacked their lips in pleasurable familiarity at the taste, but Bianca and Talib were bowled over by the unexpectedly minty flavour. After that followed a more herbal note, and the overall sensation was quite light and refreshing.

“This is amazing!” said Talib, “why don’t you sell it at the market? I know the season’s short and production must be limited, but that doesn’t stop the Apple family with their cider.”

Old Sim shook his head. “Can’t. Birch beer’s for bringing ponies together, never for profit, so it can be given but not sold. Pappy used to give it away, at the Spring Dance.”

“Why?” asked Talib simply, pressing his luck and earning a sharp look from his employer.

“Because, Talib,” he said, testily, “that’s the way it is. Some ponies say it’d be bad luck. Personally, I figure it’s to keep production down, since tapping the sap is so hard on the trees, so we don’t straight up run out of birch like they did in Trottingham. And it’s just a nice sentiment, having something that ponies can do for the pleasure it brings them and theirs, without bringing money into it.”

Talib nodded understanding – except for his lapse when Progress offered him the clothes, he’d never much cared for the material pleasures money could buy. He thought back over the last fortnight; certainly, the best moments had been relaxing in the sauna, or becoming absorbed in some woodwork project and seeing the delight on ponies’ faces at the market when they saw it. The actual handing over of bits was pretty much an afterthought, for him. He thought further.

“Like your bonsai,” he said to Old Sim.

The old stallion, surprised, peered at him. “How d’you figure?”

“Well, it’s not like you sell them, or even like anypony else knows about them, so it’s not to boost your reputation as a tree-whisperer or anything. They’re just there to give pleasure to you, and anypony who happens to come visit. I sure like them.”

Old Sim said nothing for a while, his face bearing the marks of old pain. “Somepony knows about them,” he said quietly.

Together with the look of sorrow on his face, it was obviously not a remark designed to encourage inquiry. It seemed like he’d had the words forced out of him, however awkward they sounded; it was as if not saying them would have violated some secret trust. He broke the moment, and turned to Talib.

“You like the bonsai?” he asked, and Talib nodded. “Well, colt, how’d you like to learn to care for them, a bit?” Not wanting to appear too soft, perhaps, his question came out a bit rougher-sounding than intended, and it took Talib a while to realise it wasn’t rhetorical.

“Sure!” replied the young colt, eagerly.

Old Sim merely nodded once, then looked down and returned to the business of eating. But after a short moment he seemed to remember something, and looked seriously at Talib’s parents.

“There’s something else I’ve asked for Talib’s help with,” he said carefully, “but now that I think on it, I better run it by you two first. With your leave, I’ve asked your son to help me in a dispute with another logging company.”

He then explained the suspicions he and Talib shared about Progress Group’s apparently excessive logging activities, and the reasons for their beliefs. Melaco and Ghaliya listened attentively, asking for clarification or explanation now and then. When Old Sim had finished, they looked at each other, and Melaco asked a single question.

“Is it dangerous?”

Old Sim exhaled slowly, weighing the question in his mind.

“I won’t lie to you folks. You know I feel Talib’s partly in my care as well now, and I don’t take that lightly. I’ve only met Progress Miller a couple times, but I reckon I’ve got his number – he’s no pony to be trifled with. He’s apparently well-resourced, though from what or who I can’t guess, and he ain’t no fool. If’n I were in his bad books, I certainly wouldn’t go walking down any dark alleys.” He took a breath. “But. But if we do everything above-board and through the Council, he couldn’t do much without leaving his stamp on it. And attention, and scrutiny, is something he’s like to avoid. The Council might be useless chaff-chewers, but they are in the spotlight and as long as they’re involved and everything’s above-board, I think we’ll be fine. It’s a risk, to be sure, but given what’s at stake, I think it ought to be done.”

Ghaliya placed her hoof on top of Melaco’s, and turned to Talib.

“Talib? Have you thought about this?”

Again, Talib saw an opportunity to be rid of the entanglement. A subtle phrase, designed to sow doubt in his parents’ minds about whether he would be safe, or capable…

No, he thought, angry at his cowardice, this isn’t some little white lie so I can spend a night in the Forest. This is important.

Oh, replied another voice in the babble of his conscience, so we’ll lie to get into danger, but not out of it? Don’t pretend this is about doing right by them.

The truth, it seemed, was just another useful strategy to get his own way, and right now, getting to the bottom of this was more important to him than sparing his parents worry.

Shut up, said most of him, I’m tired of you all.

“More than I’d like,” he said aloud, emphatically, “I can’t speak on the figures, of course, but something’s going on in the Forest. Something…” he thought of the displaced animals, and his dreams, and red eyes glaring at him from the murk, “not right. We don’t have much evidence right now, but I have a feeling this is a lot bigger than some over-quota logging. I think it’s necessary.”

Old Sim looked surprised; since Talib hadn’t seen fit to share his disturbing experiences with the grounded old stallion, as far as he knew this was just about some over-quota logging. For a moment Talib felt like coming clean, about everything; about his fears, about his time in the Forest, everything. But his parents had enough on their plate, and it was simpler, right now, just to let it lie. Or just more convenient - it came to the same end.

I told you to shut up.

His parents looked at Talib and Old Sim for a long time, and then at each other. Ghaliya broke the silence.

“Alright. Thank you for asking us, Sim. How can we help?”

Old Sim shook his head. “Well, nothing’s happened yet. Talib and I need to write this report for the Council, and then we’ll see. We’ll keep our eyes peeled in the Forest, but for now all we can ask you to do is keep your ears to the ground and let us know if you hear any news about Progress Group.”

The Canes all nodded, and everyone continued eating, the mood having turned sombre as the afternoon turned to evening and the light began to fade. Unable to recover their previously easy conversation, Melaco made a suggestion.

“I tell you what, why don’t we let all this-” he swept his hoof around the table, suggesting both the food and the atmosphere, “settle for a spell before dessert? Talib, show Sim into the study and you two can make a start on that report. Your mother and I will clear up and join you – Bianca, would you make the tea?”

Everypony agreed heartily, glad of some action to short-circuit their brooding. Old Sim, never one to follow meekly, remembered the way to the study and was ahead of Talib before he could rise. They left the gentle clatter of plates and cutlery for the hush of the study, where the large round windows let in rosy sunset on the bookshelves, arm-chairs and writing desk. Old Sim browsed the shelves for a while as Talib readied some paper and pencils to hash out a plan, and Talib heard him murmur softly as he read some of the spines. Suddenly he grunted in surprise and Talib turned to see him paused with his hoof tracing the gold letters on a collection of similar-looking books. Or perhaps symbols – they were written in Griffon, and Talib wasn’t sure how the script worked. Old Sim pulled one out and leafed through it, but he apparently found nothing legible and returned it to the shelf with a shrug before joining Talib at the desk.

They worked through the evening, Talib struggling to turn Old Sim’s intuitive knowledge of logging speed, tree distribution, probable yields and so forth into concrete numbers on the page. This would form the bulk of the report, with their observations about displaced animals as an appendix. They barely noticed Bianca bringing in the mint tea but drank it absently. Only when dessert was served, rose-flavour rice starch jelly on little plates right there in the study, did they break. By that time lanterns were lit and night had well and truly fallen, and Talib was finally feeling like he was starting to come to grips with the figures, and with the assumptions, estimates and projections which gave them meaning. Over dessert the Canes suggested Old Sim stay the night rather than walking back to his cottage, and he accepted after a brief hesitation. Soon after, they all bunked down, columns of digits still dancing around in Talib’s head, as yet un-choreographed and chaotic. Eventually, instead of neat columns, they flowed together into a coiled snake, made of numbers and larger than the world, eating its own tail and slowly rotating in an infinite black abyss.