Author's Notes:

Talib's parents begin to realize their son has no desire to follow the standard academic trajectory they'd envisioned. At the Summer Harvest Parade, he apprentices to the gruff lumberpony Old Sim Timbers, and meets a mysterious, charismatic unicorn stallion but is warned off by his new employer.

“Talib! Will you get up?” His mother was just outside his door, and judging from her annoyed tone had been there for some time. “You know we have a lot to do today. No such thing as holidays during harvest!”

Talib was dragged up into consciousness from very deep sleep, fighting the whole way. He felt like he’d been hit by a train. Sleep had come late, bringing disturbing dreams, and he could do with a couple more hours. But the chores would not wait, and neither would his mother. Going by the warm light streaming through the round window it was already after eight, and Ghaliya would be in here with a bucket of cold water if he didn’t get up soon. She’d obviously let him sleep as long as she could, but now he’d have to work hard to finish everything before dark.

He threw off the light sheets. The weatherponies had turned it cool overnight as forecast, but Talib rarely needed more than a thin cotton sheet – he was a warm sleeper. He swung his long hind legs off the bed – a straw mattress on the ground – and sat up, leaning back on his forelegs for a spell while he tried to clear off the heavy stupor. Blinking and rubbing the sleep from his eyes, Talib looked around his room and tried to focus. There wasn’t much to focus on: some drawers containing his (limited) clothes, his bed, the pale-yellow paint on sloped walls which formed part of the farmhouse roof; that was about it. He only came up to his room to sleep. His parents kept offering to buy him a more conventional bed – thick cotton mattress, a frame to raise it off the ground – but he liked the hard straw and saw no reason to spend the family’s money just because other ponies did. He stood up, still a little unsteady, and went downstairs.

His mother was in the flagstone kitchen, fixing something for the family. This would be breakfast for Talib, doubtless morning tea for every other pony who had been up since first light working. He could smell mushrooms with garlic, butter and parsley in the old black skillet and sourdough fresh from the oven. His father must have mixed up a batch of dough from the starter when they came home last night, and it had been proofing in the cool of the larder overnight, then finished first thing this morning. Sourdough was still an arcane art to Talib, though his father was helping him learn the secrets of short and long kneads, the different textures of rye and wheat flours, balancing the moisture of the mix, first rise and second rise, perfecting the baking temperature for a strong oven spring while still achieving a crunchy, thin crust – even mastering the basics took years, and Talib’s bread still often turned out dense and mouth-twistingly sour. His father’s were light but chewy, pleasantly sharp, and often included pumpkin seeds or some of the Walnut family’s produce obtained by a neighbourly trade for Pa Walnut’s favourite molasses. Talib persevered despite the difficulty, convinced there could be no more heavenly smell in Equestria than fresh-baked sourdough, and by the time he sat down his mouth was watering uncontrollably. He hadn’t eaten much the night before.

Ghaliya returned his “good morning” without turning around, and Talib sat himself down at the small wooden table, its edges worn smooth with hooves and time, where the family ate most of their meals when they weren’t entertaining. In contrast, the centre was rough with knife marks, since it performed double-duty as a food prep station when the long kitchen benches were being used to their full extent, which happened several times a season when processing a crop from their greenhouse or vegetable garden. The whole family would work, under Melaco’s direction, to slice tomatoes to be cooked into sauces, variously herbed and spiced. They’d spoon them into earthenware pots, pre-boiled to sterilise, and seal them with wax before storing them in the larder, cardboard swing-tags detailing the contents and date.

“Pour the tea, darling – the others will be in soon,” his mother said, slicing the bread and releasing more of the tantalising odour. She placed thick slices onto chipped everyday plates and spooned on the hot mushroom mix. Talib reached for the only ornate item currently in use – his grandfather’s dark purple-brown, unglazed earthenware teapot. He’d picked it up somewhere in his travels from the old country to Equestria, and Talib had yet to see anything else like it. Spherical, with a flared addition at the base to allow it to stand, the handles and lid were simple and functional, and of perfect workponyship – no other teapot had such an impossibly well-fitting lid or perfectly pouring, wide spout that allowed the leaves to flow through without obstructing the neck. Talib placed a strainer over the glasses to catch the large mint leaves as they dived through the steaming bridge of liquid towards the cups. The otherwise purely functional design, however, was made sublime by intricate patterns in the same unglazed clay and overlain on the whole teapot before firing. The designs were abstract and geometric with eight-fold radial symmetry, including eight evenly-spaced arrows emerging from the lid’s handle and flowing over the almost imperceptible break at the edge of the lid and the body, and continuing down to point at the base. Talib paused, confused. He’d seen this teapot, stared at its markings a thousand times, but today it was reminding him of something, nagging at the edge of his mind...

“Staring at dad’s old teapot again, love?” his mother asked. “Figured out the secret code yet?” Her voice was playful, gently teasing.

“Sorry, mom,” Talib said, “nearly finished pouring.”

“Tch, I was just joking. You’re always apologising!”

Before he could apologise for apologising, Talib’s father and sister came into the kitchen from their chores.

“Finally up I see, Talib,” his father said, “going to let us buy you a proper bed at last?”

Talib rolled his eyes and said nothing. The conversation turned, under Ghaliya’s guidance, to work plans for the day; trample the canes over the juicing mesh, separate the pulp (for paper) from the crushed, tough exterior (for weaving), turn the younger compost heaps and mix in the cane leaves. That should easily see them through till nightfall. The rest of the month would be spent harvesting and processing other fields, then tearing up some of the older fields where the cane was less productive, ploughing in some compost and replanting with a mixed crop to let them rest for a few seasons. It was going to be a busy couple of weeks, and Talib doubted he’d manage to sneak into the Forest at all.

They all got to work, and the day passed quickly. The next day was similar, and the next. A familiar rhythm moved the well-rehearsed family through the harvest dance, punctuated by visits to and from friends and neighbours. The first college rejection letter arrived about a week after Talib’s graduation, as he’d estimated. The others were not far behind. Talib had been assiduous in his self-sabotage – here a late form, there a poorly-written application – and it seemed nopony thought he’d be a positive addition to their institution. After the first letter, his parents were reassuring. After the second they were uncertain. The third left them dumbfounded and a little angry – what had Talib done wrong? After the sixth and final rejection, they were out-and-out suspicious. They grilled him about late applications, obvious mistakes on enrolment forms, and demanded explanations. Talib supplied none, but instead turned sullen and withdrawn. By the end of the two week harvest period his parents showed signs of resignation, and the tense mood at Sugar Cane Farm softened. Ghaliya and Melaco might have high expectations for their children, but no matter what happened, they would always be supportive. Talib was more grateful than he could express, but he asked forgiveness with discreet little kindnesses and his parents gave it, eventually but willingly, and the subject dropped.

. Finally, most of the hard work of the harvest was finished. The weather was still warm and the evenings mostly mild, and everypony was excitedly making final preparations for the Summer Harvest Parade. The Cane family was entering a float; a long, low wagon with four light wheels, and on the day of the parade Bianca led them to the big farm workshop for final checks. Melaco drew back the curtains and light flooded the neatly-kept space, benches lining the walls on which hung a wide variety of tools. The workshop smelled pleasantly of sawdust, with undercurrents of grease.

“Ta daaa!” Bianca sang triumphantly, whipping off the dust cover, “I give you… the Rhum Shot!” The family all grinned in appreciation. It was a perpetual project, an annual tradition – the Canes worked on it in their spare time, summer or winter: lashing together fat, dry old canes from an ancient and unproductive clump they kept around explicitly for this purpose; doing load-bearing and speed trials; decorating and streamlining, testing and honing. Bianca was the main designer and mechanic directing construction, as well as its driver – though given its speed, pilot might be more accurate – at the yearly Summer Harvest Parade. And every year Bianca made it go faster.

The wagon looked sleek and low. Its exterior was un–painted, the tough canes securely fastened with expertly–knotted ropes, strong, flexible glue and shiny steel bolts. A canvas with the Cane family crest in oil paint was tightly stretched over the hood, for extra aerodynamics. At the back was a small tray with low walls, which would carry some particularly beautiful products from the farm through the parade. These would be a contribution to the prize pool of what, for his sister, was the main event – the Soap Box Derby after the parade.

“Oh honey, it looks incredible!” Ghaliya exclaimed, impressed.

“Yeah!” affirmed Bianca, “The crest is particularly stunning, don’t you think? Thanks for painting that, dad.”

“Proud to see it there, sweetie”, Melaco preened slightly, “I’m sure it’ll make it go a little faster, too,” he winked.

The partial crest, in fact, was a hybrid; a melding of the family crests from Cane and Azhar – Ghaliya’s maiden name. A fierce-looking griffon reared up on its lion’s hind legs with its wings arched triumphantly and head thrown back, sharp beak open, gripping an evil-looking serpent in one talon and a tightly-bound faggot of sugarcane in the other. It looked amazing.

“Alright gang, let’s load her up and get going,” said Talib’s mother.

The four ponies filled the tray with hyper-sized vegetables from their garden – pumpkins, watermelon, tomatoes – as well as some bottles of the highest–quality molasses and rum from their extensive cellar, all beautifully presented in expertly-woven cane baskets made by Ghaliya. Bianca and Melaco, as the two ponies most invested in the project, harnessed up to the Rhum Shot while Talib and Ghaliya pulled the more homely cart holding the goods they hoped to sell to spectating ponies. The family locked everything up and strolled through the pleasant morning into Ponyville.

The town always looked its best on festive occasions – festooned with colourful streamers and bunting, musical ponies wandering about playing a motley assortment of tunes on an even more motley assortment of instruments, everypony in a good mood and looking forward to a day of fun and friends. Self-conscious Talib struggled a little with the crowds, but over the years he had come to realise everypony was mainly interested in their friends. He donned a demeanour of practised nonchalance like a cloak of anonymity, rendering him unremarkable despite his height. Making their way through the enjoyable chaos, the Canes reached the starting line for the parade, marked by a white line roughly painted on Ponyville’s street under a string of multi-coloured triangular flags.

Bianca shed her harness and leapt into the driver’s seat, an unstoppable grin on her face, completely in her element. Talib hoped she’d keep her hoof on the break this year as the parade rolled slowly downhill, and not get carried away like last year and decide to use it as a time trial for the race. Talib and Ghaliya uncoupled themselves from the cart to go and join the ponies lining the streets along the parade route while Melaco took their place, ready to pull the simple cart through the parade behind his daughter at a (hopefully) sedate pace. They’d all meet up at the finish in Ponyville Square to set up the food stall.

The musicians fell silent and there was a sudden stamping and cheering as the happy gathered ponies welcomed Mayor Mare to the stage – a temporary wooden construction erected near roof height at the start of the parade route.

“Welcome, everypony!” she said, eliciting further stamps from the crowd, “Welcome to the annual Summer Harvest Parade! Today, let’s celebrate another abundant harvest from our farms, and acknowledge the hard work of the Earth Ponies, Pegasi and Unicorns that makes it possible. And the floats look absolutely incredible, well done everypony! Please join me in thanking everypony for their contribution, and let the parade commence!”

Mayor Mare always had a way of making things sound slightly stuffy, but there was no faking the enthusiasm of her heartfelt speech. Pinkie Pie, up on the stage, was a perfect contrast to the Mayor’s reserve as she enthusiastically – Pinkie did everything enthusiastically – shouted, “Let’s get this party started!” An instant later there was an enormous boom as her party cannon showered the crowd with streamers and confetti. Musicians started up again and ponies left and right made plenty of noise as the floats started rolling off.

On the side lines, Talib and his mother immersed themselves in the celebratory atmosphere as float after float rolled past, showing off produce and craftsponyship from all over Ponyville and the surrounding districts. As usual, Sweet Apple Acres had put in extra effort and their fantastically sized, shiny green and red apple float, piloted by the three young Ponyville fillies and one from Manehattan, elicited particularly loud cheers from the crowd. Talib waved a hoof as they went past and the Cutie Mark Crusaders smiled in recognition as they returned the gesture. He saw the familiar expression of confusion from Babs as she looked at the mark on his flank, but when she turned and said something to her friends they just laughed and shook their heads with a dismissive, we’ll-tell-you-later wave of their hooves. Talib grinned to himself – they had probably decided he was crazy.

Ghaliya and Talib cheered madly, startling nearby ponies, as the Rhum Shot and the Cane family cart slowly rolled past. Melaco and Bianca laughed and waved, and then they were gone, coasting forward to delight the rest of the crowd along their slow route to the finish.

“Come on, Talib, let’s head down to meet them,” said his mother.

They wandered through the crowds, following the parade route, only a little behind Melaco and Bianca. Occasionally shouldering ponies aside as politely as possible, Talib and his mother met the other two after they had arrived at the parade finish in Ponyville Square. Flushed with excitement, Bianca had pulled the Rhum Shot off to the side and was stripping it down into racing mode. The goods from the tray were unloaded onto the Soap Box Derby prize table, then the tray walls and eventually the tray itself were removed and placed into the family cart, while the other three were setting up for food sales. Pieces of shelving were assembled in the homely Cane family cart and goods put in place to make it a mobile catering cart, selling refreshing ginger-and-mint sugarcane juice chilled with hail (from a hail cloud hired from Cloudsdale and delivered by a delightful wall-eyed Pegasus), crunchy-syrupy wheat pastries filled with crushed walnuts, bags of candied pecans and much more.

When it was ready, Talib jumped in the back to sell the food while Melaco harnessed up to pull him around. Bianca and Ghaliya set off to drag the Rhum Shot back up to the top of the hill for the race. It wasn’t an onerous task; Bianca had stripped the wagon down to its bare bones and transformed it into a minimalist bullet on wheels, designed for speed, the dry sugarcane an excellently flexible, strong and lightweight material. Her brother and parents had a distaste for speed more typical of earth ponies, and would cheer nervously from their food cart on the side-lines as she whizzed past; expression grim and focused, driving goggles staring straight forward and scarf whipping madly around in her slip-stream. Talib grinned to himself as he exchanged food for bits with the thronging ponies. He couldn’t wait.

Now that the parade was over, the streets became even more pressurised. During the stately progress of the parade, ponies were permitted to cross the barriers and walk across the route if they so desired. Now, however, they were completely closed off for the race, except for a few overcrowded wooden overpasses. The farming families, having shown off their choicest produce on the floats, now either roamed about selling them, like the Cane family, or had set up stationary stalls around the outermost edge of the streets, further reducing hoof-path area. There was scarcely room for the Cane’s food cart to weave through the crowds, but they managed. Business was holding up well and Talib was glad of his mother’s help when she came back from the starting line to jump in the back of the cart with him.

“How is she?” he asked, handing somepony a paper cup of cane juice.

“Nervous, of course, but she’s in with a shot this year,” his mother replied.

Talib tilted his head slightly and shrugged - that’s what she said every year. Some of the bigger families had more labour to spend on their project and would bring dedicated racers. His sister did incredibly well, designing and racing something that was both a parade float and a speed machine. But she hadn’t won yet.

“Here they come!” Melaco called back to them over the traces. A general hubbub of gasps, cheering and stomping was surging through the crowd toward them like a physical wave. Rather than struggling up to the barriers, Melaco quickly unhitched and joined them in the cart for a higher vantage point from which to watch the approaching racers, just an indistinct blur at this distance.

“There she is!” Ghaliya’s keen eyes had spotted her first. “She’s in the lead!”

Indeed she was. Bianca’s Rhum Shot was going faster than they had ever seen her racers go before, the well-oiled wheels clattering over the cobbled streets like some insanely sped-up tap dance. Talib was sure it must be an uncomfortable ride despite the thin straw cushion, but Bianca wouldn’t care – she was wholly absorbed in the experience of speed, making corners as tight as she dared without losing control, her wheel hubs just barely skimming the outer safety bales as she exited the turns. But she had competition.

Close behind, so close it looked dangerous, was Scootaloo. She must’ve jumped out of the Apple float as soon as it reached the parade finish and buzzed back up to the top on her scooter to enter the race. The contraption she was riding certainly didn’t look safe, but it sure was fast. It was like a scaled-up, more aerodynamic version of her little scooter – two wheels were set in-line and Scootaloo rode standing up, but it was also closed in on the sides by smoothly curved, lightweight wooden panels and painted a rainbow of violent, familiar primary colours. It looked a little bit like a Cutie Mark Crusaders job, but also…

“Whoo! GO SCOOTALOO!” came the enthusiastic shout from the sky. Rainbow Dash punched the air and followed the racers from above, yelling encouragement to Scootaloo. So it seemed she and the Crusaders had been secretly working on a vehicle, and a dang fast one. In Scootaloo they seemed to have found the perfect pilot – she looked focused, doubtless determined to make Rainbow Dash proud. Whenever the two-wheeler showed signs of overbalancing she’d buzz her wings and acrobatically set the vehicle true once more.

Ponies went crazy. The nervous ones gasped in fear, the highly-strung ones just plain screamed in excitement, and even Fluttershy, inconspicuous at the back of the crowd, was at least audible. Nopony had ever seen such a land-bound display of speed, and as the competitors flashed past the Cane family added their voices to the noise. After what seemed like an instant, the leading racers were out of sight, and soon the rest of the pack zoomed past, though they appeared to be positively trundling compared to Scootaloo and Bianca. Nopony could tell who had been in the lead as they had rounded the next bend and disappeared.

The Canes started making their way back down to Ponyville Square excitedly, Talib doing what business he could on the fly from the back of the cart. His mother had harnessed up next to Melaco and they weren’t hanging around – they wanted to find out who’d won. A surge of excited ponies seemed to have the same idea and Talib felt like he was on a boat, being borne along by an unusually furry tide.

When they got back down to the Square, the first three winners were already up on the podium and the announcement had finished – in third place was one of Bianca’s familiar competitors, Sea Swirl, who frequently won, but in first place was… their view was obstructed for a moment by a huge white pegasus with red eyes, and then…

It was Scootaloo!

The young Cutie Mark Crusader must have overtaken Bianca somewhere between where the Canes had lost sight of them and the finish line. Bianca’s family walked over to the podium.

“Heya Scootaloo, congratulations!” said Talib. She beamed elatedly. “Maybe a cutie mark in racing isn’t so far away, hey?”

“Thanks, Talib! That was so much fun! And congratulations to you too, Bianca – you nearly had me there!”

“Yes, well done darling!” Ghaliya said to her daughter. “On the podium again!”

Bianca smiled happily, “Thanks mom, and well done Scootaloo! That was fun! I’ve never gone that fast before, and I finally beat some of the larger families!” She turned to shake Scootaloo’s hoof with a smile. “I look forward to a rematch next year, star.”

Scootaloo nodded and grinned. “You bet!”

A multi–coloured blur of motion descended on the podium and picked up Scootaloo excitedly.

“That… was… awesome!” Rainbow Dash enthused. “Fastest darn thing I’ve ever seen on wheels!” She hugged Scootaloo violently, and the young filly returned her hug happily. Rainbow Dash broke it off to eye Bianca.

“Well, if it isn’t the fastest Earth Pony in Equestria!” she said with admiration. Rainbow Dash slapped Bianca on the back. “Better luck next year, Bianca. Scootaloo, we better watch this one! C’mon, I’m starving. Let’s take a look at our winnings! Later, racers!”

The two Pegasi rushed off, chatting excitedly. Bianca jumped off the podium and said her goodbyes to Sea Swirl, then joined her family.

“Sorry you didn’t come first, sis,” said Talib, “maybe next year.”

“Aww, that’s ok! I’m just so happy the racer performed so well. I finally beat Sea Swirl! And to be honest, I think first place meant much more to Scootaloo. Not that I won’t try my hardest to take the cup from her next year, of course.”

“Of course.” Talib didn’t really understand competitiveness, but he knew Bianca raced with good sportsponyship and there was nothing ugly in her love of a fair contest between ponies.

“OK Bianca, let’s load up the cart,” said Melaco, “time for the Rhum Shot to do some work again.

Bianca reassembled the wagon and they loaded up her second-place winnings – a sizeable share of some very delicious looking goodies.

“Looks like we’ll have to have some ponies around to share the wealth,” said Ghaliya, “we’ll never eat all this before it goes off! Now back to work, you two!” Talib and Bianca jumped back in the cart. Second place had made her a minor celebrity at the Parade, and brisk business was further aided by her irrepressible grin.

The rest of the afternoon was spent with each pony taking turns on the food cart while the other three wandered around the celebration, meeting friends and enjoying the spectacle and food. Talib hadn’t organised to meet anypony so he planned to stay with the cart the whole time, but his father wouldn’t hear of it.

“Off you go, Talib. It’s not good to be such a loner all the time. Why don’t you find some of your old classmates and catch up? I don’t want to see you back here for another hour!”

Talib wandered off aimlessly. He got up the courage to go to the Apple stand and shyly congratulate Applejack on her sister’s team winning the prize, as other ponies milled around them.

“Well shoot, Talib, that’s mighty kind o’ ya. I wondered what Rainbow Dash was doin’ with those three in the barn all summer. And well done to your sister, too! Hope she enjoys the applesauce in her winnings. Granny Smith made it herself!”

“I’m sure she will, Applejack,” said Talib before falling silent. He was always a bit tongue-tied around the energetic orange mare.

“...Anythin’ I can do ya for, sugar cube?” she asked gently, when the silence had teetered on the edge of awkwardness. “Apple fritter? Candied apple? Apple pie?”

“No thanks, Applejack. Just a plain Pink Lady apple, please.”

“Mah favourite! Comin’ right up, sweet cheeks.” Applejack fished through the display apples and found a particularly shiny, firm specimen which she passed to Talib.

“How much for that, Applejack?”

“Why, of course that’s on the house for you, Talib Cane!”

“Oh no, I couldn’t possibly...”

“Now I won’t take no for an answer. You just tell your pa to keep that apple bread comin’, y’hear?” she winked at him and Talib felt a blush starting in his neck.

Talib nodded. “Thanks, Applejack.”

“Anytime, Talib. Y’all take care now!” She waved him off, smiling fondly.

Talib returned the farewell as he walked off. He ate the apple fastidiously, savouring every bite as his heart slowed and his cheeks cooled. Something about Applejack’s warmth and simple honesty, her energy and hearty goodwill had earned her a special place in his heart. But Talib was smart enough to know his affection, however genuine, wasn’t the sort of serious, grown-up love that she would find in a stallion a few years his senior. Talib had resigned himself to cherishing his crush in secret, as no doubt did countless other young ponies across Equestria for the objects of their affection. He was content with whatever small services he could offer Applejack and her friends.

“She’s a fine young mare, that one. One of the finest,” came a knowing, gruff voice from behind him. Talib turned suddenly and was faced with a grizzled old stallion, his brown coat wrinkled and sagging a little but still clearly showing vigorous muscles underneath.

“Uh… yes, sir, she’s a real good pony,” replied Talib uncertainly, “I don’t believe we’ve met. I’m Talib…”

“Cane, yes, I know. I’m Sim Timbers.” Talib shook his hoof, a little intimidated.

“Pleasure to meet you sir…” essayed Talib, still munching on his apple.

“Save the pleasantries, youngster, I’m here to talk business. Pa Walnut tells me I ought to look at taking you on as an apprentice. Says you’ve got spirit. That a fact?” Old Sim was looking at him doubtfully.

“Yes, sir-”

“Don’t call me sir, colt. I told you my name.”

Talib swallowed a mouthful of apple before he choked, and tried again.

“Yes, uh… Sim. I really want to work in the Forest.”

“So I hear,” said Sim wryly, “well the work is hard, the hours are long, and the pay is terrible. What makes you think you can go the distance? I can’t spend months training you up only to have you flake out before you’re of any use.”

“Well, I am used to hard work from the family farm, and I have quite a lot of experience in the Forest-”

The rough voice cut him off again, “The Everfree Forest don’t care how many books you’ve filled with field notes. If I take you on, and you come out with me, I’ll tell you how much you know about the Forest.” Old Sim’s gaze strayed to Talib’s cutie mark, and instead of the usual expression of confusion there was instead a fleeting look of shock and recognition, quickly hidden. Talib saw it, however, and remembered himself. Bracing himself, he continued.

“More than anything, I want to figure out what my cutie mark means, and it has something to do with the Everfree Forest. If it means I get to spend more time in the Forest, you won’t find anypony more dedicated or harder working than me.” Talib took a bite out of the top of his apple, straight down into the core. He always ate the whole thing, seeds and all, only leaving the stem. He threw it away, holding Old Sim’s gaze as the older pony watched him from under a coarse chestnut mane flecked with grey.

“You always eat your apples like that?” said Old Sim slowly.

“Um… yes, I do,” said Talib uncertainly, “the flesh around the core is just as edible as the rest, and I don’t see any reason to waste it, I guess. My grandfather used to do it.”

He was subjected to another of Old Sim’s looks, measuring and distrustful, before the old stallion finally said, “Right then. You’re hired.”

The younger pony couldn’t believe his ears. The interview did not seem to have been going particularly well, but, not wanting to give Old Sim time to change his mind, Talib thanked him profusely. But of course, as Talib supposed he should have guessed by now, his elder had no stomach for such politeness.

“That’ll do, colt. Thank me when your muscles are aching for a week after felling a stand of oak. Now, let’s go find your parents and make this all official.”

They made their way through the thinning crowds toward the Cane’s food cart. Before they arrived, however, a dapper, solid-looking unicorn spotted them through the throng and planted himself in front of them, smiling broadly.

“Well now, Mr. Timbers, it’s good to see you again!” he boomed. He was formally attired in full morning dress; Talib’s eyes were drawn to the tail-coat expertly tailored for his larger frame and a glistening silk-satin top hat. He carried himself with absolute confidence. A beautifully kept moustache, midnight-blue screaming in contrast with his brick-red coat, completed the handsome look.

Old Sim was uncharacteristically subdued, scowling at the friendly larger unicorn silently.

“Have you given my offer any further consideration? As I said, we’re prepared to be quite generous.”

Old Sim bristled. “I gave you my answer, Progress. It ain’t gonna change.”

The unicorn shrugged, unphased. “No problem Mr Timbers, but on the off chance you reconsider, my door’s always open to you.” He turned his charismatic gaze toward Talib.

“Pardon my manners, young master! Mr Timbers, would you care to introduce me to this strapping young friend of yours?”

Old Sim hesitated, and Talib, for once, decided to take the initiative before the meeting turned even frostier. He couldn’t bear a confrontation.

“Good afternoon, sir, my name’s Talib Cane. I just apprenticed with Sim here today.” They shook hooves, the beefy unicorn getting by far the best of the exchange. He looked intrigued.

“Is that right? Well Talib, my name’s Progress Miller. It’s a pleasure to meet you.” He caught Talib admiring his clothes – Talib’s family had no occasion for such ultra-formal attire, and he’d never seen anything like it except in old photographs. “Like the coat? I have to say, usually the tailors in these smaller towns don’t know a morning coat from a stroller, but your Miss Rarity really is quite exceptionally talented! Nothing quite like formal wear to make one carpe diem! I highly recommend it. And of course I couldn’t come to Ponyville’s finest parade day underdressed, could I? What would the mares think?” He winked at Talib, who self-consciously glanced at his own humble working attire, as his thoughts strayed involuntarily to Applejack. He wondered…

Progress saw the glum look Talib gave his duds, and said conciliatorily, “I tell you what, young Talib. Why don’t you get along to the Carousel Boutique one of these days and tell Miss Rarity that I sent you in for the whole nine yards, and she’s to put it on my tab. She’ll have fillies swooning over you in no time.”

The generosity, as always, made Talib uncomfortable. He protested, but Progress insisted. “I won’t take no for an answer,” Talib heard for the second time that day, “consider it an apprenticeship present. Anyway, what’s the point of money if you can’t do a promising young colt a good turn, eh? I’m sure Mr Timbers wouldn’t take on just anypony to pass on his expertise. I might be working for you one day! Haha!” Again, the wink. What is it with ponies in this town and winking? Talib thought. He thanked Progress weakly, a little overwhelmed.

“That’s enough, Talib,” said Old Sim, roughly, “let’s go find your parents.” He dragged Talib away bodily as Progress waved happily at them.

“What was that about, Sim? What did he mean about an offer?” asked Talib cautiously, aware of Old Sim’s even fouler mood.

“Never you mind, colt. Just stay clear of him,” came the venomous reply. Talib couldn’t understand why Old Sim, however crotchety, would take a vicious dislike to such a charming, generous pony, but the old codger was clearly in no mood for discussion. Talib let it drop.

Eventually, they found the food cart again, where his parents were just finishing packing up as the day drew to a close.

“Talib!” his mother called as they approached, “Bianca went off with some friends, and she might not be coming home tonight. We three will take everything back ourselves.” Talib nodded.

Talib’s father peered at the stallion accompanying their son, then brightened with recognition.

“Why, Sim Timbers! Good to see you again, Sim. How’s your brother?”

“Doing fair, thanks, Melaco, still manages to come visit every few seasons. Farm doing OK?”

Talib was surprised. This was a far more courteous Sim than the one grilling him a few minutes ago. There was clearly some mutual familiarity and respect between the two older stallions, though Talib’s father was deferential to the much more senior Sim.

“Farm’s doing fine, thanks Sim. You here to steal away some of my labour?”

“I am, Melaco, if you’ll release him to me.”

Melaco regarded Talib seriously. “OK son, this is it. Once your mother and I sign you up with Sim, you’re officially apprenticed. You know what you’re getting yourself into? You sure about this? Think carefully.”

Talib looked at his parents, the concern clearly written on their faces. He was nervous, but his conviction never wavered.

“Definitely. There’s nothing I want to do more than this.”

His parents looked at him for a long time, while Sim waited patiently. Finally, after exchanging nods with Melaco, Ghaliya spoke.

“Alright Sim, we release him to you. Harvest work is pretty much all done, so he can start with you tomorrow. Look after him.” The three Canes all shook hooves with Sim to seal the deal.

“I’ll do my best, Ghaliya,” he replied, “now get along home and rest up, Talib, and come see me at first light tomorrow.”

Talib nodded and watched the weather-beaten old stallion stride away on strong limbs.

“Well, well. I don’t know what you did, but you sure impressed Old Sim,” said his father. Talib looked doubtful.

“Um… He was a bit… curt. I didn’t think we got off to a good start.” Coming from the diplomatic, understated young colt, these were quite strong words.

“Darling,” replied Ghaliya, “Old Sim has never had an apprentice, as far as we know. You must have impressed him to be taken on at all. Just give him a chance, he’s really a decent pony underneath that rough exterior. Doesn’t suffer fools gladly, is all.”

Talib grumbled something about fools and rudeness and helped his parents take everything home and unpack. He slept early and without dreams that night, and awoke before dawn, refreshed but uncertain about the day he faced, working with that grumpy old lumberpony.