Talib, still dazed from his head wound and exhausted by the ensuing struggle, thought of nothing in particular as he watched the rotting, splintered teeth descend, with a detached feeling of acceptance. However, before they could open his throat, a low, eerie whistle ululated suddenly through the clearing. It seemed to come from everywhere, as if projected directly into his mind, and the timberwolf paused, tilting its head as though listening. Talib's own head lolled weakly sideways to look back at Sim and the alpha – both had stopped; the alpha looking attentive, Sim, confused and cautious. Talib started when his attacker suddenly began to move again, but the timberwolf merely padded calmly off into the Forest as if Sim and Talib didn't exist, creaking slightly. The alpha followed, glancing back briefly as if regretting not being able to finish the job, its green eyes turning Talib’s blood cold. The two ponies watched their retreat with amazement, Talib straining to track their progress until they disappeared entirely among the subtly-menacing trees. He heard Sim call his name and gallop to his side, but couldn't take his eyes off the wolves, as though entranced, even as his vision was narrowing as his consciousness failed. Just before they vanished, he caught a glimpse of something else – a flicker of something supple and grey, a swirling of cloth or weird fog, he couldn't tell. His now-meagre tunnels of sight collapsed into blackness.

Talib's parents stared at Sim, stunned into silence, trying to come to terms with what they'd heard. He looked appalling – exhausted, shaken, and with a thick bandage wrapping the torn, lacerated skin of his stomach. Talib, however, looked worse. With silent coordination, they simultaneously turned to look at the young colt, Sim wincing as he did so. A broad swathe of bandages obscured half of Talib’s face as he lay in bed, still too groggy and confused to move around, half-aware. Sim had insisted Talib lie in the cart to be carried home; Talib, protesting at first, had relented when he'd nearly collapsed trying to stand. On the way he'd gradually become increasingly incoherent, and by the time Sim had turned up at Sugarcane Farm, gasping with exertion and calling loudly for his charge's family, the lemon-beige colt had been largely unintelligible. His family had been horrified but, pragmatic farming types that they were, swiftly began organizing his care, showing the stolid good sense that their injured son did not seem to have inherited. Bianca, the swiftest and fittest runner, had been dispatched to Ponyville Hospital for Nurse Snowheart. Sim desperately hoped they would return soon. Talib's skull did not feel fractured, but he'd had a brief seizure while drifting in and out of consciousness, and that couldn't be good. Now all they could do was watch and wait, and hope that the young colt's condition stabilized. They didn't dare move him.

Sim turned his morose gaze back to the Canes. “Ghaliya, Melaco. I'm-”

“This timberwolf attack,” interrupted Ghaliya in a hard, flat voice, cutting off his apology, “it was… unusual?”

Sim was taken aback. “If it was common,” he said testily, unable to moderate his tone, “do you really think I'd be out there? With somepony as green as him?” Realizing how harshly he was speaking, Sim stopped himself, with effort. Talib’s bedroom seemed to exhale the silence that followed, an alert quiet exhaled by the sloped walls, the thick, round scrap-braided rug on the floor, and the warm light of the candles.

Ghaliya's expression softened, her proud shoulders sagging somewhat. “Of course you wouldn't. Sorry, Sim. I just…” Melaco wrapped a foreleg around her as she trailed off.

“No, I'm sorry,” said Sim.

“What for?” asked Melaco, utterly reasonable. “From what you've said, nopony could have anticipated timberwolves acting like this.” Sim could tell he was just putting on a good show for Ghaliya, since Melaco was usually the most upset when the children came to grief. If Sim could tell, then certainly Ghaliya could as well, but she seemed grateful anyway.

Sim nodded. “Everything was wrong, from the moment they caught my scent.” He thought for a moment. “Even before then. There's no reason for them to be in that area of the Forest – most wood dropped by those big trees has rotted away centuries ago, so they must have animated elsewhere and travelled into the stand, as if they were tracking us from the outset. This wasn't their normal, opportunistic behaviour. They were moving too stealthily, or I would have picked them up earlier and skedaddled. And the way they attacked – no quarter, coordinated, smart. It's… not normal. At the first sign of real resistance, they should have turned tail and fled. We should have been fine.” He paused. “Then again, it was nearly a lot worse. That weren't no warning – it was mortal combat. Right until they up and left, just when we were finally beat. It doesn't make sense.”

“What do you think is going on?” asked Melaco, straight to the point.

Sim was aware of Ghaliya's perceptive eyes examining him with veiled interest. He hesitated, pretending to consider the question. Not yet, he thought, even after this. I can't betray that trust.

Yet.

“I have no idea,” he replied, hoping his faux-earnestness would fool Ghaliya. His eyes betrayed him, and flicked sideways to catch her impassive gaze. She gave no outward sign of having received his answer with suspicion. But then, he thought, that's the problem with Ghaliya. You'd never know, until she wanted you to. He dragged his eyes away and back to Talib, who occasionally mumbled incoherently.

Liar, thought Talib, without quite knowing why. He could hear them talking, hear the voices, but couldn't connect. Everything was foggy and jumbled, his awareness drifting here and there without direction. He had vague memories of disturbing dreams: more fire, yes, but now the trees also danced weirdly around in the flames, not burning, emitting a low, other-worldly whistle. Their dance, and the flickering shadows thrown by white-hot flame, made sharp-edged shapes that leapt and twisted violently. They looked like wings, beating angrily against the ground. The soot and ashes rose high, like an inverted black and white rain, or like feathers shaken loose. There was a throbbing in his head, and throughout his body – a beating, pulsing rhythm which thumped, out of time, in contrast with the whistle-dance and the jagged flames. The noise and movement, the light and dark, heat and cold, all escalated towards an unbearable crescendo, until he felt himself dragged back, away into a dark, enveloping liquid coolness – water, deep water. Talib's whole body jerked and thudded with the pulse of the world.

Cool water, on his head – and soft light, perceived through his closed eyelids.

It must be evening, he thought. What happened to the day? An incredible pain throbbed in his head, turning his stomach and making him cringe. Something felt very wrong. He struggled to open his eyes, seeing the familiar sloping, painted-timber walls of his room, dimly-lit.

Shouldn't I be at work? thought Talib. With painful effort, he rolled his eyes sideways and saw Sim, sitting at a bedside chair in dim candle-light and staring out the window, though nothing was to be seen beyond.

“…Sim?” he managed, weakly.

His mentor's head snapped around, a look of immense relief on his features. Hastily, the grizzled brown stallion rearranged his expression into his more customary half-scowl. He rose, gently taking the cloth from Talib’s forehead and wringing the blood-warmed water out into a bucket. The cloth was re-wetted from his canteen and replaced on Talib’s forehead with surprising tenderness. Talib remembered filling up those canteens from a brook on the way to the clearing-ground. But not much else.

“Finally decided to wake up, I see,” said Sim, not quite keeping his gruff voice steady. “Stay put – you're hurt. I'll fetch your folks.”

“What…” began Talib, before lapsing into silence as he searched his memories, his heart lurching with the beginnings of panic. “Sim, I don't remember… I can't…”

Rapid, business-like hoofsteps were carrying low voices closer, up the stairs. Sim glanced at the open door, then turned a comforting gaze back to Talib, no longer trying to conceal his concern. “Aye, that'll happen, with a blow to the head like that. Don't worry – everything's alright now. Here come your parents.” He stood and stepped back from the bed, making room.

Talib soon saw why. A lemon-yellow earth pony mare, whom Talib recognized as Nurse Snowheart, marched briskly through the door, panting slightly but not pausing as she came directly to the bedside, pale blue-grey curls bouncing as she moved. She cast an inquiring glance at Sim and opened her mouth, but a look was all he had needed. “He's just woken up,” said the old lumberpony. “Seems to know himself, but can't remember past the injury.”

Nurse Snowheart nodded her thanks, then dismissed him from her consideration as she focused on the patient. More ponies came through the door – Bianca, still out of breath, then Melaco and Ghaliya, eyes full of hope.

“He's awake?” asked Bianca, as the three rushed into the room, relief and concern somehow unmixed on their faces, like oil and water.

Nurse Snowheart raised a hoof sharply. “He is, but please don't tax him just now, not until I've finished examining him. Here,” she said, pointing a hoof beside the bed, “stand here, if you like, but I'll need his full attention. I won't be long.”

The family gathered around, watching Nurse Snowheart in silence. Several minutes of calm professionalism provided some much-needed reassurance, the nurse gently feeling his spine and skull, checking his vision, cognition and memory, asking probing questions. Talib answered sensibly, though he was thinking and speaking more slowly than usual, and had complete amnesia beyond felling the tree. He'd assumed he'd been injured by a branch. Eventually, the nurse was finished.

“You have a moderate concussion, but you should be fine,” she said simply to Talib, before addressing the whole group. “Concussions can be tricky. Each one is different, so full recovery might take a week, or months. I hope you're a patient patient, Talib, because the best treatment is rest. Lots of mental and physical rest. Even reading should be avoided.”

Talib looked as though a terminal diagnosis would have been preferable, and Sim chuckled, earning a sharp look from Nurse Snowheart. He looked chastened, and the nurse continued. “There's still cause for concern, since Sim and your parents have told me about your earlier symptoms, which suggest rather serious injury to the brain. I'll remain here for a few hours and monitor your recovery, but if everything continues to improve I'll leave you in your family's good care.”

“So I have to lie here, and just… not do anything?” asked Talib. Despite his bravado, however, rest sounded good. The room looked much more… rubbery than usual, swaying and spinning ever so slightly.

“Essentially. At least for a day or two, you should stay in bed,” she said, firmly. Well, thought Talib, there goes my plan to peek at Spruce Timbers' diary tomorrow. Not that I was going through with it. “And certainly no demanding physical or mental tasks for about a week,” she continued. “Apart from slowing your recovery, the first concussion makes you vulnerable to further and more severe concussions, and from smaller injuries. So yes, do as little as practical until you're fully recovered. But I'll go through the full details with your parents. For now, just rest.” She turned to the family again. “I'll stay here, and one of you probably should as well, if you can. But only one. And Talib – close your eyes and sleep, if you can.”

“You're living where?” asked Melaco incredulously. Talib suspected that the only thing keeping his normally quiet father from shouting was Nurse Snowheart's assertion that he wasn't to be “agitated”. This was not going well.

“In a little cabin, just inside the Forest,” said Talib, too tired to do anything but answer plainly.

Nurse Snowheart had woken him up after a few hours, and repeated her examination. She'd declared herself satisfied with his recovery, and left after giving instructions to Talib's parents, with Sim and Bianca also listening carefully.

“You might expect some behavioral changes – irritability is very common,” the nurse had said. “Although I remember the time when Fleetfoot had a concussion – she developed a sudden crush on Big Mac. Very awkward. Here's hoping Talib isn't secretly carrying a torch for anypony!” She'd winked shockingly at the injured colt, and his parents chuckled. Talib had winced, and made a mental note to continue diligently avoiding Applejack. Nurse Snowheart had bustled out into the deep night. Only then had they been allowed to question Talib about what had happened.

Sim had suspected he knew something about the attack, and made it subtly clear that he'd no longer stay silent about Talib's living arrangements. Talib found himself effectively blackmailed into coming clean. If it wasn't for the concussion, he probably would have found some way to wriggle out of it, but his head was still throbbing and fuzzy, and it had seemed easiest just to confess.

His parents were in shock. Ghaliya looked to Old Sim, and he answered their unspoken question.

“I only found out a few days ago,” he said. “I figured Talib knew what he was doing, but made it clear he had to tell you.”

Before they could say anything, Talib piped up. “I asked him to wait, said that I'd tell you this week.” He looked back at his mentor. “Sim, they don't know about the experiments.”

“…experiments?” said Bianca, confused. Talib took a deep breath as he looked at the uncertain, slightly angry faces of his family, trying to quiet the voice inside. The secretive, deceptive, self-protecting voice, which kept ponies at a distance because what if they find out?

How weird you are, how different? And now, what a liar?

The voice which had caused him to shield off a core part of himself from even his family. They had never known how lost he felt, with this cutie mark that pointed nowhere. How desperately he needed to discover what his life was for; and the things he had done, the decisions he had made, in pursuit of that knowledge. A part of him realized they’d always deserved to know, but a more selfish motivation was driving him to honesty: if he was ever to be allowed back into the Forest again, he had to make them understand.

Slowly, he explained about the experiments, and then began describing his hidden life from the logical beginning – the day his interest in magic had become an obsession. The other timberwolf attack. At first, he tried to reveal without making himself vulnerable, to twist the story and the justifications so that it seemed he'd been doing the right thing, but Ghaliya's piercing questions soon made him abandon that tack. Ultimately, he just hoped they understood. That, perhaps, would be enough.

He told them about his years of secret visits to the Forest, and more of the details of his reading, here in Ponyville and at the Canterlot libraries. How he'd been planning these experiments for years. Why he'd apprenticed with Sim, finally carrying out the experiments in secret, and was nearly done. His confession came full circle, finishing where it had begun; at the day's un-remembered timberwolf attack. He didn't dare look at their faces, but stared down unseeing at the patchwork quilt, sewn together from years of family scraps, worn-out but never discarded.

His sister spoke up first, which probably meant his parents were too shocked and upset to trust themselves with speech, just yet.

“So,” she said, “when you said you were staying with Sim, you were really in this cabin of yours?”

“Yes. Or building it, at any rate,” replied Talib, meekly.

“And when you said you were at somepony's house – Dawn's, for example – you were actually in the Forest?”

“Mostly.”

“And,” Ghaliya finally put in, “when you applied for those colleges…” she trailed off, and Talib's heart stopped beating. This was the betrayal he felt worst about. Ghaliya gathered herself and finished the thought: “…you were trying to get rejected?” Her voice wavered slightly.

Talib, still feeling a kind of detachment imparted by his unconscious visions, somehow managed to answer.

“…yes,” he said thickly, then swallowed hard. “I'm sorry. I couldn't bear the thought of having this thing forever,” he gestured to his flank, where his cutie mark was covered by a faded grey patch in the quilt, “and not knowing. Even Dawn had more to go on with understanding her mark. I bet she's figured it out by now.”

His parents responded with silence. Bianca, at least, was either unsurprised or sympathetic. He knew how she'd had to hide and suppress her real desires, her machine-filled dreams. Maybe she understood.

“But you have no idea why the timberwolves attacked?” she asked.

“No, I don't know. At least, not for sure. There's something… something bad going on in the Everfree Forest, quite apart from the over-logging. Maybe the two are connected, somehow – it's complicated. But somepony or something in there is preparing for trouble. From what Sim has described about today, I think the timberwolves… they must be part of it. I wish I could remember it. But whatever’s going on, it hasn't reached out to Ponyville. Not yet.” He had a sudden image, of swirling fog, or coarse fabric. “It will, though, which is why I have to keep going. There's something behind this, an intelligence. I think… I think maybe there was somepony with the timberwolves, directing them.”

Sim's eyes widened, and Ghaliya noticed. Hastily, he returned his face to an impassive frown. Melaco looked at Talib unbelievingly.

“Talib, after all this, how could we trust you right now? And the Forest is too dangerous to be in alone, clearly.” He looked at Ghaliya, and she nodded. Talib had a rising sense of dread as his father continued, firmly. “You're not to go back to this cabin, or to your experiments any more. You're only to go into the Forest with Sim, to work. Although,” he said, turning to Sim, “frankly, Sim, we're upset that you didn't tell us straight away.” Sim just shrugged and nodded, offering no defense.

Talib sat up rapidly despite his muddled head, but quickly regretted it. He paused a moment before speaking to let the hammering in his temples abate. “But then, if I can't finish my experiments,” he managed, planting his hooves on the thin straw mattress to steady his slightly swaying torso, “what was the point of all this?” Realizing what he'd said, the wiry young pony looked quickly at Sim. “Sorry, Sim,” he said, “it's been great, better than I expected, but-”

“It's alright, colt,” said Sim, “you told me straight up why you wanted the job. I always knew your real interest lay with the Forest itself. That's why I hired you – it's how I was, at your age.”

Melaco was undeterred. “That's too bad, Talib. You should have thought of this before lying to us. For months - years.”

Ghaliya nodded. “There's no way we can let you go out there to the cabin or experiments anymore. It's too dangerous to go alone, and we can't ask Sim to spend every spare moment supervising your obsession.”

Talib was crushed, and he sank back against the familiar, paneled wall, feeling the shallow corrugations press into his back. All these years of planning, the weeks of back-breaking labour… and now what? I wait more years to finish my apprenticeship before I'm independent? Or give up, re-apply for college? Desperately, he searched for a way out, but found only one.

It was not an enticing strategy.

Hayfa's going to kill me, he thought, maybe literally. Still, it seemed the only way. He drew a breath, searching for courage as he looked at the stern faces of his parents.

“I'm sorry I lied to you. I just… like I said, this has been my life, you know? And I know what I'm doing.” His father scoffed. “No, really!” Talib persevered. “I've been going into the Forest for years, and today… whatever happened today… is the first problem I've had.” Melaco and Ghaliya were shaking their heads, and Talib felt a kind of weightless, dizzy lurch as he mentally committed to playing his ace.

“And besides,” he said, staring at them earnestly, “I'm not alone out there.”

“Talib,” interjected his mother, “we've already told you that Sim can't-”

“I mean, in the cabin,” said Talib hastily. “I'm living with a… a friend.” Who eats meat and held a knife to my throat the first time we met, he carefully did not say out loud.

Everyone, particularly Sim, looked surprised, and he answered another of Ghaliya's interrogative glances with a shrug and a shake of his head. Melaco raised an eyebrow and frowned. “Nice try, son. I didn't want to believe you would still lie to us, especially after all this, but-”

“She's real!” said Talib, exasperated.

“She?” asked Ghaliya, exchanging a significant look with her husband.

Oh, no, thought Talib. As if it wasn't already going to be hard enough to explain.

“It's not like that,” he said. “She's… different. We're just friends.”

“Talib, said Melaco, “you had better start making sense, because frankly, this is not sounding very plausible.”

Which part? thought Talib, that I have a friend, or that I'm living with a female? Stifling the bitter reply, he hastily rallied some half-truths. “She's a… forest worker, kind of like me. But she's not from around here, just traveling through. I met her one day in the Forest, and we talked about the report I was writing for the Council. She contributed some testimony about the strange things going on, that sort of stuff. Her camp was pretty insufficient-” well, “torched” is more accurate, he thought, but kept to himself, “-so I invited her to move in. She's really tough, and smart, and can fight – she's been showing me some stuff.”

“Hah!” exclaimed Sim, suddenly. “So that's where you learned how to swing a branch like that.” The family looked confused, so he elaborated. “I didn't mention it before, but Talib here actually saved my – our – bacon. Turns out he can duck and swing pretty decent – and a good thing, otherwise we'd have been done for.”
Talib was about to nod, but thought better of it. “Yes. She's had some training, ran me through some drills and sparring. So you see, I'm not alone – I'm in good company.”

“And what is this friend's name?” asked Ghaliya.

Talib gulped, and supplied the fake she'd suggested. “Sifir. Sifir Habiba.” He tried not to look like he was lying again. Though it seems I've even fooled mom all these years, he thought. That's actually concerning.

The pony in question was looking at Talib, not in disbelief, but in shock; a shock that had a worrying component of recognition. Before she could speak, Melaco arched his eyebrow suspiciously. “She's from Saddle Arabia?”

“Nearby,” replied Talib, breezily. Please, he thought, please don't have any follow-up questions.

“Well, you're still grounded. When you're recovered, you can go back to work with Sim, but you're to come straight home every night.”

Talib was feeling increasingly aggrieved. “For how long?” he demanded.

“At least until we've met this Sifir,” said Ghaliya. This clearly surprised Melaco, who turned to his wife questioningly. His eyes widened when she continued. “Why don't you invite her to lunch on market day?”

Talib's mouth hung open, his damaged brain declaring defeat. His mother looked at him innocently, but eventually Talib realized. She knows. He couldn't tell precisely what she knew, or suspected, but if Talib knew his mother, it wouldn't be long before everything was out in the open. He surrendered.

“That might not be advisable,” he said, lying down again and looking up at the half-seen, pitched-roof planks so he wouldn't have to see their faces. “She's a griffon.”

In the silence that followed, it was as if there were not one, but five concussed ponies in the room.