Author's Notes:

After a week of work in which Talib managed not to embarrass himself too badly, their day at the market runs into a hiccup when Old Sim learns he's being undercut on price by the industrious unicorn, Progress Miller. Talib also tries and fails to get a hold on his crush for Applejack.

The rest of the week continued in a similar pattern. Talib would awake before dawn, stiff and sore, and force himself to get to Old Sim’s by first light. Every day, they’d process some of the log pile into lumber –Talib’s employer wanted it done before the end of the week since, he said, letting the logs dry out could cause splitting. However, perhaps because they were making good time, perhaps out of pity for Talib’s spasming muscles, Old Sim varied the routine somewhat. The sawdust, swept into bags every second day, was kneaded together with a little tree resin and melted wax (bartered from Mrs. Walnut’s apiary) into a kind of fragrant dough. It was formed into little cones and left to dry, and when burnt as incense gave off a heavenly aroma of floral honey, sharp and fresh sap, and wood-smoke from whatever tree species happened to have dominated Old Sim’s haul that week. It was very popular in Ponyville and supplied a much-needed boost to the business.

A couple of evenings, Talib even managed to get home for dinner before dark, and the two ponies were slowly learning how best to work together – Old Sim kept his snappishness just enough under control that it didn’t spook his sensitive apprentice, and Talib tried to work hard, be conscientious and avoid asking obviously stupid or unnecessary questions. There was, however, no reappearance of the philosopher that had so surprised Talib after their first sauna, though it turned out to be a frequent ritual for Old Sim which Talib gladly adopted.

He also made a start on learning some furniture-making, soon proving quite hopeless. The more carefully he aligned and re-checked joins, the less right-angled they would end up, and Old Sim suggested he take some lumber home and practise in his spare time. “When you can at least make an angle within spitting distance of square,” the old pony grumbled after a few wasted planks, “maybe we’ll try you again. Throw these on the offcuts pile.” So for a couple of days, whenever Old Sim would take some time in the workshop to make rocking chairs or chests of drawers, Talib would continue processing logs into lumber in the warehouse. Without much enthusiasm, he took a couple of practise planks home with him each day, setting them by for when he had a moment.

Eventually, though, his employer came up with another way he might be useful. One day while Talib was cutting lumber, Old Sim came into the warehouse from the cottage hauling a small wheelbarrow with a few interesting burls and knobs. Talib stopped work and followed the older stallion as he was beckoned into the workshop.

“Here,” said Old Sim, dumping the burls with a disregard he’d never show finished lumber, “I tool around with these for bucks occasionally, but don’t seem to have the hooves for fine work. Why don’t you try carving something nice out of ‘em?”

Talib looked doubtfully at the pile. He’d never really been the creative type. “What should I make?” he asked.

“If’n I knew that, would I be asking you to try it? Work them into something nice, something a house-proud pony might want to show off on some shelves or a table.”

The younger pony was shown to the workbench, vice and a nearby drawer with some woodworking tools carefully wrapped in oilcloth. At first Talib was surprised when every tool turned out to be razor-sharp, but – thinking for a moment, as he had learned to do before asking questions – he reasoned that the less force one had to apply to the wood, the less likely one was to make some ruinous, gouging slip. Old Sim left him to it, suggesting he try his hoof for a few hours and then get back to cutting lumber. Talib selected a round, fairly regular burl to start with, about a foot across, and studied it with interest. The lumpy surface, he knew, concealed a solid sphere of bizarrely-grained wood which would need little ornament. It would suit a plain surface that could show off the irregular patterns to best effect – anything more would be gilding the lily. Talib himself didn’t particularly like useless bric-a-brac and thought of his grandfather’s teapot, the most beautiful object he could imagine. Something about the combination of sublime function and harmonious decoration…

When Old Sim came back in, wiping his brow, his apprentice was busily sanding smooth the slight depressions in eight dinner plates. Wordlessly, the old pony picked one up and blew off the wood dust while Talib continued nervously working. The plates had apparently been carved out of the same round burl. Their eating surfaces were identically concave discs, smooth as slate and extending to within an inch of the perimeter. These edges, sliced horizontally from the burl at equal thicknesses but otherwise unshaped, differed from plate to plate with the natural variations of what had been the outer surface of the burl. A single groove in each plate lined them up for stacking, whereupon the knobbly projections re-formed and the burl was effectively reconstructed to its original shape.

Talib placed the final plate on top and explained uncertainly, “I know it seems like an odd idea, and it may not be the little ornament or whatever you had in mind, but I-”

The old lumberpony held up a hoof. “They’re just swell, colt. I don’t know how you came up with the idea, but let’s take these to market this week and see if anypony is strange enough to buy them.” One corner of his mouth turned up in a faintly surprised smile, and Talib felt a still-nervous pride. The smile turned teasing, as Old Sim continued. “Looks like I might have some use for you after all. We’ll clean these up, oil them and get them varnished once they’ve dried for a bit. Now, if your artistic soul can bear it, some rougher woodwork needs your attention in the warehouse. I’ll re-sharpen the tools and join you in a minute.”

Talib obediently went back to processing the shrinking log pile.

By the end of the week the daunting log pile had dwindled and vanished, and Talib’s body was beginning to adjust to the demanding work. He’d even managed to carve a few more attractive items, and at dawn on market day these were loaded in a small cart with bags of charcoal and incense and a couple of carefully-secured items of furniture. Another cart – giant, solid and ancient – carried the driest lumber from the warehouse, and the two ponies plodded stoically into Ponyville, swapping loads occasionally and arriving a little before the day’s commerce began.

Ponies without pressing errands were beginning to finish their unhurried breakfasts and occupy the dew-fresh streets as the two lumber-ponies paid their first visit. Old Sim’s regular customer for charcoal answered at his business-like knock – a hulking, black-smudged mare of a ponysmith named Steel Trap – and greeted them cheerfully from the sauna-like heat of the forge. Her fussy, smaller husband inspected the charcoal, pronouncing it “First-class, as usual,” and earning a snort from Old Sim, before counting out the bits with a meticulous and infuriating thoroughness.

Next was the lumber itself, and Talib found himself in front of a busy wholesaler’s in the commercial district. Red-brown warehouse doors were thrown wide-open, admitting carts of new lumber like their own and emitting unburdened ponies. And noise. After the relative quiet of Old Sim’s workshop on the edge of the Forest, Talib was slightly unnerved by the shouts, as only boisterous labouring ponies can shout, and the loud thunks of planks being stacked and un-stacked. He looked at Old Sim, maybe for reassurance, and found the stallion’s brows furrowed. “Busy today,” was his laconic observation. From his tone, Talib gathered this was neither usual nor positive.

Forging onward through the doors and into the organised bedlam, Old Sim nodded in amiable recognition to the labourponies, and many of the lumberponies with whom he was evidently familiar. Several others, however, were treated to an interrogative, slightly hostile glare which Talib had not often seen from his employer. When they reached the forepony, who was gesticulating and bellowing to direct some load of lumber to the appropriate stack, Old Sim, either because he was cranky or very familiar with him, did not wait upon pleasantries.

“Wood Pile, who in the hay are all these newcomers?”

The forepony, heavy haunches displaying an appropriate cutie mark of stacked lumber, replied in a more conversational bellow without apparent offense.

“Just some new outfit operatin’ from outta town somewhere. Callin’ theyselves the Progress Group, if’n you c’n believe it.”

Old Sim’s eyes narrowed.

“Whereabouts they felling, exactly?”

“Well Sim, not too sure, exac’ly. They don’ say. But looks like they travel a ways ta get here.”

Talib followed his mentor’s gaze to one of the ponies in question. He did indeed look travel-worn, and had panniers suitable for quite a long journey. Old Sim looked grimmer than usual, but turned to the day’s business.

“Got some oak here, and some yew. About two and a half-weights of each.”

Wood Pile hesitated a moment before replying.

“Price has gone down a little, Sim. Got much more comin’ in now wit’ this Progress Group bein’ so productive. I c’n give ya two bits a span, fiver per double-width.”

Old Sim nodded tersely and signalled Talib to begin unloading into the cart of a waiting labourpony while Old Sim took payment. As Wood Pile and Old Sim walked off to the office, Talib overheard the forepony say, “Sorry, Sim. Supply n’ demand’s a mule, ain’t she?” before the two fell to chatting without apparent rancour.

Having unloaded the various planks, separated by species, grade and size, Talib loitered near the warehouse exit and, as was his wont, observed discreetly. Old Sim wasn’t the only pony put out by the drop in price, and he heard a few others complaining. The Progress Group ponies were easy to spot once you learned to look for the tell-tale marks of travel and their standoffish demeanour. He heard one of the labourponies try to make friendly conversation as she unloaded, but she got nothing beyond a few uninformative syllables until she casually asked where they were logging. The sullen lumberpony bridled further and replied it was none of her darned business.

And I thought Old Sim was rude, thought Talib. Ah, speak of the Discord…

His employer had emerged from the office smiling slightly and apparently having made some witticism, doubtless in his typically dry style, which was causing Wood Pile much mirth. Still chuckling, the rough forepony slapped Talib on the shoulders and wished him well, apprenticed as he was under the best darned lumberpony there was. Talib winced and thanked him, awkward as always at any display of friendliness or favour, and with their loads significantly lightened they exited the warehouse onto Ponyville’s relatively quiet streets.

Making their way towards the market square, the crowds were beginning to gather as vendors set up and opened their stalls. Old Sim apparently had a regular spot, near the edges of the market so customers needn’t carry their furniture as far, which nopony had dared commandeer even though they were a little late arriving. Set in the craftsponies’ section, the already-opened stalls to their left and right sold earthenware pots, stout ropes, and Mrs. Walnut was there with her beeswax candles. Across the street, Steel Trap’s husband waved at them distractedly as he talked shop with a customer, surrounded by iron and steel tools forged by his wife’s strong hooves.

Old Sim directed Talib in the assembly of some boards for their small booth, secured by some metal lock-and-key fastenings. In a few minutes they had the incense and wood carvings on display, with the heavy chest of drawers and rocking chair carefully unloaded and set up in the space either side. The carts were tucked away behind them, some incense was lit to lure in customers, and they opened their faces to the shopping ponies, Talib shyly smiling and Old Sim... well, scowling less deeply than usual, at least. Or trying.

In a short time ponies had stopped by and started buying incense. Some were clearly regular customers who greeted Old Sim with familiarity but knew not to expect much conversation, and others were apparently drawn in by the smell. Talib thought it best that he handle the new customers, and so tried to overcome his habitual withdrawal to be pleasant and engaged as they chatted with him about inconsequential matters. It was clear the garrulous shoppers of Ponyville were not just here (as Talib would have been) to buy their goods and be done, and his social skills were strained to their limits. Old Sim seemed content with the way he was handling things though, and hung about in the background unobtrusively, occasionally supplying answers to a product-related question.

Talib was gratified and surprised at the enthusiasm shown for his unusual wood-workings even though it took most of the morning to actually shift one – a large fruit bowl made from half a particularly spiky burl, supported on interlocking and strangely-twisted branches. That went for ten bits, followed later by his plate set and the other half of the fruit-bowl burl. Somewhere along the way Old Sim had got chatting with a newly-wedded couple who loved his furniture and had managed to sell them both items for their new house, insisting they accept a generous discount and some incense as a wedding gift. Again, Talib reflected on the surprises ponies could give you – he’d never imagined Old Sim had a sentimental bone in his body. The newlyweds ask that they hold the furniture till close of market, so Old Sim hung a “sold” tag on each piece and discussed making a matching partner for the rocking chair. Things had quietened down so Talib, receiving distracted permission from the older pony, wandered off to explore the markets a little.

He first paid his respects to Mrs Walnut, who inquired politely how the apprenticeship was going. Pledging to have some more wax for their incense next week, she bade him farewell as he went in search of some food. Spying the Apple family stand, Talib took a deep breath and walked over. His favourite orange-coloured mare was chatting with smiling customers in her neighbourly fashion, and as Talib approached she hit him with one of her genuine, artless smiles. It may as well have been a train, and his vision went a little blurry, but he persevered.

“Well howdy Talib! How’s tricks?”

“Swell thanks, Applejack. You?”

“Busier’n a three-legged mare in a flank-kickin’ contest, but doin’ pretty fair for all that,” was her idiosyncratic reply, “now what brings y’all to market this fine day? I thought you hated crowds.”

I do, but if the crowd contains you… Talib banished the distracting thought from his mind, instead replying, “Old Sim and I have a stall set up with the craftsponies, selling incense and such.”

“Well shucks, of course you do! I tell you what, I’ll come over later and say hello. Always got time for Old Sim,” she said, before making his day by continuing, “and you of course, Talib. Now can I get you anything?”

“What’s good, Applejack?”

“You’ll like the Golden Delicious. Later summer crop, it hasn’t been so warm, so they’re a little more tart – just the way you like them, right sugarcube?” At his nod, she handed him one and continued, “And don’t you go tryin’ to pay again. But maybe next time, think about trying one of mah apple fritters?”

Though he preferred plain apples, Talib knew she was a little proud of her reputation as a baker and made the promise. Anyway, he’d probably eat a dirt sandwich from Applejack’s hooves, and love it. Bidding farewell, he returned to Old Sim’s stall just as he was finishing the apple, to discover that all but one of his woodcrafts had sold – only a plain, round little container he’d made as lid-making practise was left on the counter.

“Seems there’s plenty of strange ponies in this town to match your strange carvings, colt,” said Old Sim drily, “made up for that business at the timber warehouse this morning, and then some.”

“What was up with that? Progress Group can’t be a coincidence – that must be that unicorn, Progress Miller, right?”

Old Sim grunted darkly and said, “I’d bet bits to bridle-spit. Tomorrow’s our rest day. I’ll make some inquiries, figure out how he’s getting all that darn lumber together.”

Just then, Lotus Blossom and Aloe from the Ponyville Day Spa arrived and Old Sim was busied organising their usual bulk order of incense. As Talib turned to scan the crowd, his heart caught in his chest when he saw Applejack headed straight for him, eying the stall appreciatively.

“Howdy partner!”

Talib swallowed. “Hello again, Applejack.”

“Nice setup y’all have here,” she stopped as she noticed his final remaining wood carving, “now ain’t this the prettiest little thing?”

Picking it up, she examined the small round container. For a first try, Talib had to admit, it was pretty passable. The outside had some lovely woodgrain which shimmered at different angles and the lid fit snugly. Not yet ready to try threads, it was a simple lift-to-open affair. Applejack seemed quite taken.

“Did you make this?” she asked.

“Um, yeah… You like it?” Talib asked, cautiously

“Sure do, Talib. It’s just the thing…” she rotated it and looked at the price underneath.

“It’s only five bits,” she said hesitantly, “but it’d really just be a self-indulgence-”

Talib interjected, “Oh, Applejack, of course you don’t have to pay for that.” He repeated her words from a week ago, “What are neighbours for?”

It can come out of my wages, he thought privately.

“Talib! That’s mighty kind o’ ya. Ah don’t know…” Applejack was clearly tempted.

Like a wrinkly harbinger of doom, Old Sim descended on the scene.

“Applejack! Good to see you. Admiring young Talib’s hoofwork?”

“Ah am, Sim.”

“Well you’re not the only pony. I sold that piece not five minutes ago – she should be back to pick it up any minute now. Excuse me while I wrap it.”

“Oh!” Applejack replied, “Of course.” She handed the container back to Old Sim cheerfully, but Talib’s heart sank. It was obvious she’d been close to accepting it.

After a pleasant exchange of news, Applejack promised to convey Old Sim’s regards to Granny Smith and departed. Old Sim didn’t notice the dejected look on Talib’s face, or at any rate didn’t comment. As the market came to a close a little after noon, they packed up and headed back to the workshop, a profitable trip behind them.

“Well, that’s about it for today, colt. We’ll unload and the afternoon’s yours,” said Old Sim as they drew near the Forest. Talib had been even quieter than usual the whole way, dwelling on a single thought.

“Actually Sim, I had a favour to ask,” he said timidly.

The older pony glanced sideways at his charge, dragging his cart beside him, but merely replied, “Mm?”

“Could I use the workshop for some wood carving this afternoon?”

“Well… I don’t see why not. Just look after the tools. But get home to your parents before dinner, hear? They’ll be missing you.”

The young colt gave his promise, and after they’d unpacked and Sim had retired to his cottage to do who-knew-what, Talib entered the quiet of the workshop and busied himself for a few hours, whittling and carving, sanding and polishing until, finally satisfied, he applied a light coat of varnish and set the item to dry overnight. He then returned home to the Cane farm, the journey looking strange and unfamiliar during sunup, and the family rejoiced to have their son home and alert during daylight hours instead of dopey and exhausted for a half-hour over dinner before going straight to bed. They sat down to tea in the kitchen, afternoon light slanting through the windows, and gossiped happily about their week. Before dinner, Talib and the girls retired to the study while Melaco sang his way lustily through preparations in the kitchen. His only slightly off-key melody, some jaunty thing he’d picked up as a foal from his mother, was familiar to them all and a mood of utterly relaxed contentment followed the tune into the study.

While his mother and sister sat reading in deep armchairs, respectively occupied with the latest sugarcane-breeder’s newsletter and a dense mechanic’s manual, Talib had pulled up a firmly-upholstered chair at the writing desk. On the capacious, dark wooden surface he arranged some paper and a book simply called Plants of the Everfree Forest. Really, for what should be quite a broad topic, it was a slim volume – another symptom, he reflected glumly, of ponies’ general disinterest in anything that couldn’t be farmed. Checking his mother and sister were busy with their own readings, he opened the book and removed the densely-written notepaper hidden between the pages. Now that he had a good opportunity to spend regular time in the Forest, Talib was eager to begin his experiments.

All those years ago, when he and Dawn had got their cutie marks, Talib’s magical obsession had broadened. The Everfree Forest, somehow, held the key. He couldn’t explain it, but he knew intuitively that something about the Forest had caused the failure of Miss Scribe’s magic, and the growth in power of Dawn’s, and so his reading list had suddenly and dramatically lengthened. But nothing in any of the books he had read could explain what had happened, and he had read everything he could find in Ponyville. He’d even taken trips to Canterlot, on his school holidays – just another lone, studious young pony on the train, with his head in a book – and read innumerable public-access documents on magic, becoming very familiar with Canterlot’s many libraries big and small, famous and obscure. They’d been interesting, but had not shed any further light on the Forest’s relationship, if any, with pony magic. After asking once, he’d been informed that it was impossible for the Royal Archives to be opened (to a nopony such as he, the bureaucrat had implied) so he hadn’t pushed his luck. Besides, he wasn’t optimistic he’d find anything in there, either – it seemed the idea of some kind of link between pony magic and the Forest was original to Talib.

Where books had remained silent, he had decided, experience must speak. Slowly, secretly, Talib had begun to explore the Forest. Whenever he could, he told some little lie about going to a friend’s, or (more believably) the library, and had snuck off into the greenery, against his parents’ explicit instructions. At first he’d not been sure what he was looking for, or how to find it, so he’d focused on familiarising himself with the terrain. As he’d expanded his mental map wider and deeper into the Forest, his attention had shifted to the environment and its inhabitants. Some more close calls with timberwolves taught him the value of stealth as well as caution, and moving like this he was often able to observe many of the shyest creatures, which most ponies frightened off with their careless clomping about. But nothing he’d found had explained his cutie mark.

He examined the plans he’d been drawing up and refining for the last few years as he learned more about the Everfree Forest: transplant experiments, growing Forest plants and farm crops in each others’ environment. The experiments had first suggested themselves to him in vague form some years earlier, when he’d been idly thumbing through one of Ghaliya’s crop breeding texts left on the table. Different plants, he read, flourished in different environments. One could do test plantings in a multitude of environments (or treatments) – sun, water, soil, wind and so forth – and record their performance, their productivity. The Everfree Forest was never far from his mind and so the idea of doing the same with Forest plants had suggested itself immediately. For thoroughness, reciprocal plantings of crop plants into the Forest seemed only sensible. With this setup, perhaps he could begin to make some headway in understanding the effect of the Forest on pony magic. He was no Unicorn, but he still had his Earth Pony magic. He just hoped it would be affected in the same way.

He traced the details on the page in from of him. Take some Forest seeds and seedlings, put them in disused corners of Sugarcane Farm fields. Do the same with farm crop plants in the Forest. Make some mixed plantings, in each location, of Forest and farm plants. Use different plants. Transplant the soil, too, for some plots. Record growth data. Randomize and replicate the whole thing. It was a lot of work, too much to run all at once, especially given how little spare time Old Sim was leaving him. He’d only be able to maintain a limited subset of plots at any given time, but could stagger the experiment, planting a new plot every time he retired a finished one. So what does my timeline look like…?

He continued sketching and scribbling, filling pages with numbers and diagrams and schematics and flowcharts until his frown felt permanently etched into his fog-filled skull. He stretched and leaned back in his seat, staring past the shelves of books and to the dimming sky through the high round window as he reflected glumly. It seemed his experiments were likely to take more of his time than he’d hoped. At this rate, he’d never get enough sleep. But any less rigorous experimental design and he wouldn’t be able to trust his results.

A solution presented itself to him, clear and unbidden from the hind-quarters of his mind, but he dismissed it out of hand and tried to think of another way. He didn’t want to lie to his parents any more than necessary. Melaco called them in to dinner but Talib was preoccupied throughout as he slurped down the delicious, pleasantly-spiced carrot soup with (of course) crunchy-crusted sourdough rolls. Afterwards though, as he and Bianca dried their hooves from the washing up, he finally accepted the necessity of this addendum to his plan. If he didn’t follow through, come hell or high water, it defeated the whole point of apprenticing with Old Sim in the first place.

As his family relaxed before getting ready for bed, Talib slipped outside into the night and walked over to the workshop. The creak of the door sounded as loud as an Ursa Major’s roar to his guilty ears, but nopony came out to ask him what he was doing. He lit a lantern and found his object: the pile of neatly-stacked practise planks, given by Old Sim in the hopes of improving his furniture-making skills, was exactly where they had been accumulating over the week in an unoccupied corner of the room. Hanging the lantern on a high nail Talib examined them, measuring and thinking, and again became absorbed in sketching and planning, this time a project of a rather different nature.