Author's Notes:

It's the day of Talib's high school graduation, and he reflects on the strange events which have driven him to make risky but necessary choices.

The cane was high, strong and thick, and that meant an afternoon’s hard work harvesting before Talib could get ready for his school graduation. His parents were busy with the main field and his sister was minding the enormous copper vats where they boiled the sugary liquid down to syrup, leaving Talib alone in his reminiscing. The day was clear and hot, and the pale yellow-beige colt donned his broad, unfashionable work-hat to stave off the sunburn that so easily affected his muzzle. As he worked through the rows, cutting the cane close to the base with his grandfather’s well-worn but sharp machete, Talib let the sound of cicadas and the gentle, hot breeze calm him from the slightly traumatic storytelling. The Cutie Mark Crusaders had heard about the origin of his cutie mark, but he hadn’t told them the whole tale. His mind drifted freely into the past as his body and hooves were kept busy, working at their well-practised tasks.

It was true that Dawn had liked practical jokes. On a field trip long before the Everfree Forest the class had passed some wallowing pigs and Dawn had somehow convinced one of the Pegasi, Storm Cloud, to jump in with them, saying the mud was only hoof-deep. It wasn’t. Storm had been covered up to the withers in sticky brown mud, and the class had been helpless with laughter. Storm had not taken it well. About a week later, on lunch break, Talib had been sitting, as usual, on some shady stairs around the central quadrangle, alone except for a book while the other Earth Ponies did some pointless things with a ball. Out of the corner of his eye he’d seen Storm walk past, and something determined about her gait had made him look up. She was trailed by a couple of older Unicorns who Talib recognized as some fairly surly final-year students. He watched as they approached Dawn, who had somehow ingratiated herself into a skipping game with some Pegasus fillies. However, as the other three approached threateningly, the game had stopped and the young Pegasi had backed away uncertainly. As Talib would have. But Dawn, typically, was not cowed and faced them squarely. Nopony spoke.

Storm, however, had not come for a staring match. She nodded to the Unicorns and they’d begun a spell, a spell like nothing Talib had ever seen. Weird red-black energy had snaked out from the Unicorns’ horns to a point between them and Dawn, forming a hard-looking, oily red ball. It seemed to hesitate there like a living thing, growing for a moment, before shooting forward without warning and striking Dawn squarely in the chest, flowing over her body and obscuring it completely, shifting weirdly. Talib couldn’t believe his eyes, and neither could the gathering crowd of worried ponies. Only Storm and the two Unicorns looked on with anything other than horror. Before anypony dared approach, the coating of magic flowed back to its original position between the Unicorns, and Talib looked to Dawn. But instead of a slender pony with red-pink fur and dark blue mane, Talib had seen a pig, oinking without apparent concern. Storm, it seemed, had had her revenge, and looked on triumphantly.

But not for long. Something was wrong with the spell – a spell that such young Unicorns should never have been able to cast in the first place. The threatening red-black ball of energy had changed, and now flashed through all the colours of the rainbow, and some besides. It was growing again, much faster than before, and the Unicorns had looked on terrified and helpless as the advancing chromatic wall had engulfed first them, and then Storm, leaving more pigs in its wake. It hadn’t stopped there, expanding to fill most of the quadrangle, turning teacher, student and parent alike into oinking pigs. Talib had a vague memory of wanting to roll around in mud, but not much else. When he had regained his wits, his pony body had returned and he looked around to see Miss Scribes, enveloped in the same cold blue flame as he had later seen in the Forest, beams of light flying from her horn and turning pigs back into ponies wherever they landed. The multi-coloured sphere had evidently reached some kind of limit and fizzled out, and now she was reversing the damage. The sight was breath-taking – his teacher hovered above the central quadrangle, sapphire ribbons streaming around her, and when everypony was back to normal, her unsettling pure-white eyes turned to the Unicorns responsible, and they shrank back. But there was no escape from the tendrils of power that flew towards their horns, infusing them with an acid-blue glow and causing what looked like sapphires to grow and encrust them. The Unicorns hadn’t been able to use them for months. In the aftermath, Miss Scribes had kept a closer eye on Dawn, and was often tutoring her in her little office after school, to try to improve her magical ability. Her efforts had met with little success – Dawn, apparently, was destined for other, non-magical things. Talib knew all this because he had been eavesdropping.

Talib dragged his mind back to the present. He’d finished harvesting the field, and decided to take a quick break before stripping the cut canes of their leaves. He trotted over to the beaten-up tin water trough and plunged his muzzle in greedily – the day was at its hottest, and sweat drenched his flanks. Satisfied, his long limbs took him over to the shade of the Everfree Forest’s treeline behind the field, and he sat there munching thoughtfully on some celery supplemented with wild watercress he’d gathered from the Forest. The juicy, peppery meal refreshed him, and he lay back with his hat over his face, enjoying the shade. He could always feel a sort of presence in the Everfree Forest, more than that of plants and small creatures. Talib lifted his hat and allowed his eyes, as usual, to stray deep into the murky green. But he saw nothing unusual, shrugged and once again lowered his hat, closing his eyes and returning to his memories.

Watching his teacher reversing the pig spell in the quadrangle that day, years ago, Talib had been literally and metaphorically spellbound. He’d always been more intellectual than physical, unusual in an Earth Pony, and something about the spectacle had set his curiosity ablaze. He’d begun to read everything he could find on magical theory and casting – even though he could never hope to cast spells himself. He’d asked, begged, and found excuses to stay in Miss Scribes’s office after school, studying and listening to her lessons with Dawn. When his teacher felt he should not be allowed to stay, that he should spend more time with his family or making friends, he misbehaved during the day so she would keep him after school as punishment, or snuck up to her door and sat on the worn floorboards in the deserted hallway, listening and reading. In the face of his determination, she gave up trying to dissuade him and accepted his inevitable presence while she taught Dawn. And then, later, had come the Forest incident and his cutie mark, and his obsession had broadened, gained direction.

Standing reluctantly, Talib donned his hat again and started stripping the canes with his teeth, stacking and tying them under the simple wooden shelter nearby. They’d crush them and process the juice tomorrow – this afternoon the whole family was taking a break from the usually unshirkable harvest chores to attend his graduation. The leaves he piled and secured with a stained old canvas tarp so they could be added to the compost heaps tomorrow. The giant piles of warm, moist plant matter were his father's other children which he nurtured attentively, and would eventually break down and be added back onto the house garden and cane fields. When not checking his knots Talib worked by muscle memory, his eyes almost constantly on the trees.

His work done, Talib wandered over to the depression between fields and the squarish dam it held. He climbed its sloped earthen walls and jumped in enthusiastically, hat and all, and spent some time lying on the bottom. Letting his mind empty and his heart slow, Talib felt his confusing reverie wash off him with the sweat. After about a minute and a half holding his breath he surfaced and bobbed around on his back for a spell, letting his muscles further relax and his body cool. Thought returned, settling on his upcoming graduation. For most young ponies, tonight’s graduation would be the culmination of their studies and they’d move forward into a vocation, or career-directed studies, as if on well-oiled rails. For Talib, however, it was an escape, a sideways leap into uncharted territory – and freedom. Freedom to carry out a plan that had been growing in his mind, taking it over, ever since the Everfree Forest had planted its seeds therein.

His stomach, ignoring his angst, growled urgently and demanded something more substantial than the earlier snack. Talib climbed out of the dam and shook himself off, then trotted over to the solid, stone-walled farmhouse’s kitchen entrance. The day was so warm that by the time he got there he was nearly dry, and he entered the sunny but cooler kitchen with his usual air of reverence. Between the two of them, Mr and Mrs Cane could have supplied some of the finest restaurants in Ponyville, had they not enjoyed giving things away so much. Little gave them greater pleasure than seeing joy on the faces of some friend or family member as they received a jug of spiced mead, sugarcane- and lime-juice, a small cask of old, dark rum, or some of the myriad possible treats sweetened with the produce of the farm. The kitchen (and the cellars below) it were holy places for Talib: their sacred decorations, the cast-iron and drying items hanging everywhere; their stained-glass windows, the many-coloured things preserving in jars on shelves. He made himself a huge bowl of salad and chose a couple of extra sweets for a small plate – a firm glob of rose-flavoured, gelatinous stuff powdered with icing sugar, and a bite-sized, sweetened custard tart. His parents, each with their unusual heritage, had some family recipes shared by very few Ponyville residents.

Talib ate in the kitchen, washed up and went up to his room to change. He heard his parents and sister come in, their work also finished for the day. His plate and bowl on the drying rack informed them of his presence, and his mother shouted up to him.

“Talib! We’ll get ready and be leaving in a few minutes!”

Talib opened his door and replied “OK mom!” at a lower volume. He hated raising his voice, and especially shouting at ponies through the house.

Self-consciously but quickly, Talib donned his school blazer and checked his mane. Thick, straight, dark auburn-brown and, as usual, quite unmanageable. He did what he could to push it to one side with his hoof but stubborn tufts still pointed in whatever direction they pleased. He stared into his own eyes in the mirror, delaying the moment when he’d have to leave, and settled into the familiar frown of confusion he’d seen mimicked by the Cutie Mark Crusaders. Although he was looking forward to moving on from school, he dreaded his parents' reaction when their hopes for their scholastic son proved ill-founded. They certainly wouldn’t understand. He continued to stare at his reflection, but apparently it had no answers. He could almost see it shrug. “You’re no help,” Talib said to his other self, but it didn’t respond. Well, he was as ready as he could be, and couldn’t put this off much longer. He sighed and went downstairs, not turning back to check if the pony in the mirror had any parting advice.

The rest of Talib’s family were dressed with comparable rapidity and simplicity, and they all set off towards the school hall. The day was finally cooling off, and the breeze was changing from desiccating to refreshing. On the way, they chatted about the day’s work and, satisfied everything had been completed, his parents turned to their favourite topic of late – Talib’s plans for next year.

“Have you got replies from any of the colleges yet?” his father Melaco asked in his delightfully spiced Portugallop accent, sounding like smoked paprika given voice. Though he sounded casual, Talib knew their thoughts on the subject were anything but.

“Not yet, dad,” he replied, “but nopony is expecting them for another week or two.”

“Well, I’m sure you’ll do fine. Your marks have certainly been good enough,” continued the stocky, dark chestnut stallion. Melaco always sounded bemused when discussing his son’s academic strengths – every other pony in their family worked mainly with their hooves.

Talib nodded agreement with his father, though privately he knew precisely how many, or few, colleges were likely to accept him.

“I still don’t know why you applied to apprentice under Old Sim Timber,” his mother, Ghaliya, chimed in, “you’re far more suited for scholarship, don’t you think?”

Talib’s heart skipped a beat, as it always did when his parents mentioned Old Sim. Only Talib’s sister, Bianca knew how much he really wanted that lumberpony apprenticeship, and he’d sworn her to secrecy. Her pale blue face wore an uncomfortable expression between the curly locks of her purple mane, but she kept quiet.

“Well, it seemed sensible to have something to fall back on in case the colleges don’t work out,” said Talib, trying to sound natural.

His mother wasn’t yet convinced. She was quite tall – in fact, only slightly shorter than Talib – and her striking amber coat and forest-green mane combined with a focused presence to give her an imposing air, when she wished.

“But even if that happens,” she replied logically, “which is highly unlikely, wouldn’t you rather stay on the farm and do work you’re familiar with?”

Talib had rehearsed for this and, in fact, they’d had this conversation many times already. He repeated his usual response.

“But you know I’m quite slow on the farm. I just don’t seem to have the natural flair for the work that the rest of you do. I might as well try something different, but still nearby so I can stay at home and help out a little while I figure out what comes next.”

His parents were only slightly mollified, but exchanged a look that clearly said “let’s drop it for now”. The rest of the journey passed quickly – there was always plenty to discuss concerning the farm. They arrived at the graduation ceremony a little early, as was their habit, just as the evening was turning and Princess Luna was beginning to bring calm, quiet and shadow to the land. Talib had always loved this time of day, and that evening he slightly resented having to spend it indoors. They followed the warm light coming from the school building ahead and the sound of excited ponies.

Most ponies had already arrived at the slightly run-down but high-roofed assembly hall and were milling around, students and parents all chatting with each other about plans for next year. On their way in, the Canes paused by the photos on the wall, searching for the annual shots of Talib’s class. There they were, looking bigger and older each year. He found the final photo of Dawn before she’d left for Canterlot, taken the year after Everfree. She looked normal, happy, and he peered at her similarly odd cutie mark – a black circle, with eight arrows emerging, evenly spaced, in different colours. Just as confusing as his, it seemed.

Talib wondered where she was now. With both of them hanging around Miss Scribes so much and then getting their cutie marks together, it had probably been inevitable that they’d become friends. In fact, inevitability was the only way it was ever likely to have happened; he and Dawn had been different flavours of social pariah – he the awkward bookworm, her the unpredictable weirdo – and friend-making was not high on their list of skills. They’d been incredibly different, Talib acting the glum, quiet foil to her exuberant self-indulgence, and had never quite understood one another. Still, each was the only steady friend the other had, and Talib for one was not sure how he would have borne those years without her. When her family had moved to Canterlot, she’d quite typically neglected to consider that he might miss her, and had for all intents and purposes dropped off the face of Equestria. Talib, in his pique, had never looked her up, but looking at her photo he now found himself missing her more than he had in some time. He wanted somepony who would understand what he was doing. He wished she were here.

“C’mon, Talib!” Bianca called to him, jolting him back to the present. Talib’s family had moved on while he’d lingered, and his sister had found some of her friends. They’d been through this a few years ago and as she wandered off with them, uninterested in reliving it through her brother, Talib caught up to Melaco and Ghaliya. The three of them joined the fray and soon Talib’s parents had also met up with their friends and neighbours, the Walnut family. Their child, Kernel, had applied for a few of the same colleges as Talib, so that dominated the conversation. For Talib, it blended into the general hubbub in the too-echoing hall and he tuned it out.

Old Pa Walnut was there too, dark and wrinkled as his crop. He eyed Talib keenly.

“Here now young colt-me-lad, Old Sim tells me ye’ve asked if he wants an apprentice for next year?”

Talib groaned inwardly. He’d hoped that information wouldn’t spread too far, but of course those two curmudgeonly old stallions were of a similar vintage and probably thick as thieves.

“That’s right Pa Walnut, sir, and I really hope he does.”

“Oh ye do, eh? And why would ye be wantin’ to go and cut timber when a fine academic career awaits? It won’t wait forever, ye know.”

Talib, of course, couldn’t tell the full truth. But his parents seemed absorbed in their own conversation, and so he did tell part of it.

“I love the Forest. I really want to spend more time there, learning about it. Working with Old Sim would be the best opportunity for that.” Most ponies said 'Old Sim' when talking about him, running the two words together into one, as if it were some grand title. Perhaps it was, in a way.

“What’s so special about the Forest then, eh?” pressed the ageing stallion, prodding Talib sharply in the chest, “what’s under them trees that ye spend most o' yer spare time clompin' about, takin' notes and frownin' like yer passin' a stone?”

Talib started, shocked. How could anypony have seen him? Pa Walnut cackled at his expression.

“Heh, don’t look so surprised, me little pony. Old Sim’s been workin' that forest longer’n ye’ve been a-breathin’. If a fruit bat farts in there, he knows about it.”

Talib recovered his composure. “Well sir, I don’t exactly know what I’m looking for, to be honest. But I’m sure it’s got something to do with my cutie mark. If I ever find out what it means, it’ll be in the Everfree Forest. I’m sure of it.”

The grizzled stallion glanced at Talib’s parents chatting away and then took him aside, gently but firmly. His eyes were perceptive as he continued probing.

“Ah, yes. The mysterious Ouroboros. There’s a symbol ye don’t see around much. Though Old Sim did say it looked just like one he saw in the Forest once, so mebbe yer onto somethin’." Before Talib could interrupt, he continued. “But don’t ask me any more about it, that’s all I got out o' him. Ye’d have to ask him yersel’. Now, what about all these fancy colleges ye’ve applied for? What if ye get in? What about yer folks?” Pa Walnut’s gaze had turned piercing, and Talib had to steel himself before replying.

“I… doubt I’ll be getting into college. My parents will adjust. I really, really need to be in that forest.”

For a long moment, Pa Walnut just stared at him searchingly. He then glanced at the Canes, still absorbed in conversation, before speaking.

“Alright then, colt. I’m convinced of yer spirit, if not yer sense. I’ll put in a word for ye wit’ Old Sim.”

Talib was taken aback. “I… thank you! I don’t know what to say!”

“Ye can tell yer parents I had nothin’ to do wit’ it, for starters.” Pa Walnut winked at him conspiratorially.

“Would everypony please take their seats?” Miss Scribes herself, now vice-headpony, had magically amplified her voice from the small wooden stage so it was somehow omnipresent without being deafening. There was a minor stampede as the proud parents and nervous students hurried to the rows of benches in the audience or on the stage, respectively. The house lights dimmed.

The ceremony itself was no longer than it had to be, but that was still quite long enough for most ponies. As such affairs tended to, it consisted of long periods of boredom as every other pony’s name was called, punctuated by brief excitement for each family when their particular foal or filly received their diploma. Talib had graduated with very high marks, though he was let down a little by his somewhat narrow interests. Even though he was expecting it, it was still nerve-wracking when Miss Scribes called him to the podium to hand over his diploma. His parents beamed proudly but quietly as he trotted over to his teacher, his mind blank except for thinking his hooves sounded too loud on the wooden stage.

“It seems you’ve become quite the budding magical scholar, my little pony,” murmured Miss Scribes quietly, “and I wish you well in your studies… wherever they may be.” She too winked at Talib, and he cast a startled glance at Pa Walnut, sitting next to the Canes a few rows back in the audience. The old codger’s face was completely inscrutable, and before Talib could recover he was ushered back to his seat. Finally, the headpony wished all the students luck and their families at last could express their pride. The hall echoed to the sound of cheering and stomping while the students stood for their applause. As he watched his parents beaming up at him, Talib couldn’t help feeling like a traitor.

It was soon over, though, and all that was left were ponies milling around the hall, saying their goodbyes. Some were sad and uncertain, where friends might be moving apart for further study, others casual and confident of swift reunion, if they’d applied somewhere together. For Talib, there was no particular pony he was close to, except maybe Miss Scribes, and she was plenty busy chatting with other ponies. His parents were chatting with friends and he looked around at the other ponies, having nothing to occupy him and nopony to talk to. He was at a loss.

School had not been an easy time for Talib Cane. Spending more time in the library than the sports court, combined with his ungainly, lanky limbs, gave some of the other Earth Ponies plenty to target. The depth of cruelty of some foals and fillies is always surprising, even in retrospect, and Talib had never got over the sense of rejection. The Pegasi and Unicorns largely had their own groups, based on things Talib could not hope to share, and so it had seemed there was nowhere for him. Later, as other ponies began to find out about his interest in magic, his reputation changed from “that clumsy, bookish Earth Pony” to “that crazy, magic-obsessed Earth Pony”. He had turned further inward, to himself and to the less threatening worlds of thought and the printed word. Eventually, along with study, solitude had become a principle joy in his life.

He wouldn’t have traded his time learning about magic for anything, but a small, quiet part of him, looking around the hall and seeing the strength of affection some ponies shared, did wonder whether he might have missed something important. Miss Scribes glanced across the room and saw his slightly morose expression. She didn’t say anything, but gave him a firm, slow nod of… encouragement? I-told-you-so? Talib couldn’t be sure – maybe both.

At home, he collapsed into his low straw bed physically and emotionally exhausted but unable to sleep straight away. Doubts gnawed at his mind, a constant buzzing inner monologue.

What am I doing?

Is this a big mistake?

What if I don’t find anything?

I could spend thirty years cutting trees! For no good reason!

Maybe I shouldn’t have burned my bridges so thoroughly…

Eventually though, sleep did come, and he dreamed strange dreams of the Everfree Forest, and a confusion of wings – leathery and feathered, scaled and furred. And the Forest was a black moonscape, its trees felled and undergrowth torched, reeking harshly of smoke and death. And somewhere, underneath it all, he felt a giant heartbeat slow, slow. And he was drowning and searching desperately underwater, water which was blood, the distant heart beating with his heart, slower, and slower, and then… two hearts fell silent, and the world was flooded and remade with evil-looking light. And the voices of doubt were silent too, and he wept silently, tears falling in sleep onto his pillow.