Author's Notes:

The Golden Oak Library yields a fascinating book, but also a run-in with Rarity, who can't help pressing Talib about the Spring Dance. Old Sim goes digging for dirt on Progress Group and makes a concerning discovery, while Talib sets up a camp in the Everfree Forest. Unfortunately, he discovers he may not be alone...

The next morning, being his rest day, Talib treated himself to a relative sleep-in, rising with first light instead of before it. He shared a leisurely breakfast of poached eggs on toast with his family, continuing his modest self-indulgence with a rare cup of black coffee, before they all split off about their various errands for the day. Talib walked briskly over to Old Sim’s and knocked on the cottage door; there being no answer he then tried the workshop, entering and retrieving his now-dry carving from the previous afternoon. There was no sign of his mentor. Talib shrugged and went in to Ponyville. A light rain freshened the morning as he made the journey, and Talib waved greetings to Rainbow Dash and some other Pegasi busily wrangling the grey clouds above. It being necessary for their crop, the Cane farm had somehow finagled a special dispensation to receive hotter, sunnier weather than most of the surrounding area and this had given Talib an appreciation for cool, rainy days. They soothed his somewhat anxious nature and gave him a sense of peace and calm. Eschewing raincoat or galoshes, he tramped happily through the weather, anticipating a busy but pleasant day.

Heading through the drizzle-quietened streets, Talib made his way straight for Golden Oak library. The enormous, ancient tree was throwing down occasional but monstrous drops of water, consolidated on their journey through its canopy, and one smacked Talib right on the forehead as he trotted up and knocked on the door. It felt more like a hailstone.

“Coming!” came the preoccupied cry from inside.

After a surprisingly long wait, Twilight Sparkle herself opened the door, her Alicorn wings resting against her side as she continued giving some instructions to Spike and Owlowiscious.

“…and please find a reference work on traditional garments for such occasions.” She turned to look at the visitor and raised her head in recognition. “Oh, hello, Talib! How are you?”

“Pretty fair thanks, Twilight, pretty fair.”

“How’d your college applications go?”

“Oh, I uh… chose to apprentice under Old Sim instead,” he said, adding, at her uncomprehending look, “the old lumberpony out on the edge of the Everfree Forest?”

Twilight looked surprised, and a little disappointment tinged her voice as she said, “Oh, I thought maybe it was some magical scholar I hadn’t heard of. But your studies! Shouldn’t you be working away on some research project in a Canterlot archive somewhere?”

Used to the advice, Talib took no offence and just said simply, “I can spend more time in the Forest this way. Which brings me to my errand here today.”

Twilight just waited, looking at him pleasantly. Talib always felt a little more at ease around this other awkward, bookish pony, but right now her lack of social finesse was causing him some inconvenience. Another fat drop of rain bonked onto his skull as he reflected on the irony; perhaps this was what it was like for others, expecting awareness of social conventions from him. After the silence had gone on a little too long, Talib finally gave up and spoke.

“Um, Twilight? It’s raining out, might I come in?”

Her eyes widened in alarm, “Of course! Sorry, I didn’t think. Come in, come in!”

Passing under the peaked eaves, the tall young colt looked around the book-lined room and saw Spike and Owlowiscious busily searching the shelves for a text like the one Twilight had requested. He dried off with a towel left hanging thoughtfully on the coat hook as she closed the door behind him, having gazed appreciatively at the rain for a while.

“Don’t you just love rainy days?” she enthused, “Such a perfect excuse to stay in and read!”

“I do,” smiled Talib, “but I prefer to be out in the weather, myself.”

Twilight considered this, and shook her head. “Nope. My books would get wet.” She shrugged. “Takes all sorts, I suppose.”

“About books. I was hoping you could help me find something.”

“What’s that? You’ve already read everything we have on magic theory and history of the Forest, not that there’s much on the latter”

“True,” said Talib, always amazed at her perfect recollection of what everypony had and hadn’t read, “I’m interested in more applied topics today. Do you have anything on edible plants and fungi in the Forest?”

“Huh. I’m not sure… although, thinking about it, your best source might not be a book, but a pony. Or rather, a zebra.”

Talib nodded understanding. That was definitely a good idea, he’d have to seek out Zecora at some point. Just then, Spike shouted, “Found it, Twilight!” and jumped down from the ladder clutching a slim volume in his claws. If dragons could have special talents, Spike’s had to be his uncanny ability to always find exactly the right book. He handed it to Twilight – on the cover was a stylised young mare, elegantly dressed for dancing.

“Thanks, Spike! Now, see if you can find anything on edible plants and fungi of the Forest.”

Spike’s face twisted in distaste. “Euch. Okay, Twilight. Let’s go, Owlowiscious.”

Twilight gestured Talib into an armchair while he waited, and shouted upstairs, “Rarity! Found it!”

Talib winced, partly at the indoor shouting, partly at the revelation that there were more ponies present than he’d thought. Rarity occasionally took a big-sisterly concern at his lack of social involvement, and once or twice he’d overhead her and Bianca conspiring together on ways to help him “break in”. Thankfully, nothing had come of it. Yet.

Miss Unicorn herself soon appeared at the staircase and descended gracefully.

“Twilight, you know it’s uncouth to holler through the house so,” Talib nodded agreement even as he reclined deeper into the armchair, trying to blend in with its pattern, “but anyhow I’ve assessed your outfits and you simply must have a new gown for Spring Dance. You’ve quite a gap in your wardrobe, you know! Your Gala outfit is far too formal.”

Twilight acquiesced, delivering herself to her more knowledgeable friend’s expertise, and handed Rarity the book.

“Here’s what we’ve found so far.”

Rarity donned her spectacles and flipped the pages thoughtfully.

“Hmm, some of these are rather nice… why don’t you choose a few that you like, and I’ll update them for this year’s fashions?”

Twilight nodded as Owlowiscious flew over to Talib, carrying a similarly thin book with Spike jogging behind him.

“Here you are, Talib – Everfree Forest Edibles.”

His cover blown, Talib hastily grabbed the book and stuffed it in his weatherproof waxed-canvas pannier, giving his thanks to everyone and heading for the door-

“Talib Cane, you stop right there!” The indignant cry froze him in his tracks, and he sheepishly turned to face an upset Rarity, staring commandingly at him over her half-moon glasses.

“Now, don’t you think it’d be a little hurtful to leave without even acknowledging somepony?”

Impressive, thought Talib, she’s managed to give me social advice, guilt me into following it and avoid explicitly bossing me around, in one sentence.

“Sorry Rarity. It really is very nice to see you,” he extemporised hastily, “I guess I just got caught up in my excitement to read this book. How are you?”

A failing often displayed by her friend Twilight, Rarity could hardly chastise Talib very severely for it. She sighed, rolled her eyes, and settled her expression into a pleasant smile.

“I’m well thank you Talib, but very busy of course. I’m trying,” she looked at Twilight doubtfully, “to make sure all my friends are suitably attired for the Spring Dance in a few seasons but of course the orders will just keep rolling in. Which reminds me.”

She rounded on him with determination.

“I am going to make you clothes for morning dress.”

Talib’s mind worked furiously, trying to figure out what she meant. Suddenly it came to him – Progress Miller’s apprenticeship gift! Talib had forgotten all about it. Had Progress really mentioned it to Rarity?

“It’s nice to know that someponies still appreciate the elegance of formalwear. Progress told me you were most taken with his outfit at the Summer Harvest Parade and has commissioned a similar set for yourself, as a gift. I believe you were aware of this?”

He nodded. He remembered the brief, self-conscious moment when he’d thought perhaps Applejack might admire him if he were as dashingly attired as Progress had been, but it had only been a temporary weakness. He knew that wasn’t the sort of thing Applejack valued. Neither did he, come to think of it. But there appeared no escape now, and he resigned himself to discomfort in the name of politeness, as usual.

“Well, it just so happens I have my tape with me,” said Rarity. Of course she does. “Now come over here and let me take your measurements!”

Talib dared not disobey. Rarity valued generosity highly, of course, and was also clearly flattered by the esteem in which Progress held her art and her talent. Then there was the fact that, when sporting her wares, he’d be a walking advertisement for her tailoring skills – his unusually long frame and limbs did not comfortably bear clothes bought ready-made, to his parents’ exasperation – so this was a smart commission for her. Talib tolerated the tape being whisked about his body and struck ridiculous poses as instructed while Rarity jotted notes and Twilight and Spike giggled surreptitiously at his discomfort. He used the time to be thankful it was only magical pseudo-hooves going anywhere near his body, and uncharitably pondering whether Rarity’s enthusiasm was also due, in part, to a big-sisterly desire to play dress-ups with a helpless younger-brother type…

Measurements taken, Talib hoped they were done but she produced a sketch pad and forced him to choose some of the details of the garment himself. He allowed his choices to be subtly and not-so-subtly guided by her hints about what she thought would suit him best, settling on dark-grey pants striped with lighter-grey, and a plain while shirt with turn-down collar. A waistcoat and tie (grey and silver, respectively – all very formal) would match the plain black morning-coat and complete the ensemble. He promised to swing by the Carousel Boutique the following weekend for the first fitting.

“And do you have something for the Spring Dance yourself, Talib, or shall we discuss it when we do the fitting?” inquired Rarity.

“Oh, I’m not going to the Dance,” said Talib, not thinking.

Oh, no…

Rarity looked offended, “Not going? But everypony goes, after they graduate! What about your friends? And isn’t there somepony, some young filly you’d like to tread the boards with?”

An image of Applejack, elegantly dressed (for a change) and held close under warm stars as they danced to beautiful strings…

“Uh no, not really. Nope. I don’t particularly like crowds, you see,” he began to babble, “and it goes on a mite late for me. I need to get to bed soon after sundown, and uh…”

Everypony, plus Spike and Owlowiscious, was staring at him.

“Anyway, I’m sure I’ll have work to do…”

Applejack…

“Um, actually,” he said, more nervous by the second as he pulled a small box from his pannier, “could you give this to Applejack, please?” He’d nearly forgotten earlier, when fleeing for the door.

Twilight magically grabbed the plain brown cardboard box with her transparent purple aura and exclaimed, “Ooh! What’s this?” Her unthinking curiosity getting the better of her, she opened it, much to Rarity’s horror at the faux pas and Talib’s entirely different and deeper horror.

“Twilight! That’s very rude! What if it’s…” her voice trailed off a little, seeing the beautiful item rise from its container, “…private?”

A perfect, glossy wooden apple, complete with stem and a single thin wooden leaf, hovered in the air in front of the small gathering. It had been carved whole from a small burl and, were its warm wooden hues changed to red, would have looked perfectly edible.

“Oh, Talib… it’s lovely,” said Rarity, her own blue glow carefully taking it from Twilight’s magic. Noticing the near-invisible seam around its circumference, Rarity opened it, revealing the container’s hollowed-out core. The two halves slotted together again perfectly, a single groove (similar to the ones on his plate set) lining them up so the grain was unbroken. Rarity gave him a quizzical but knowing look as she returned the object to its box.

“This is for Applejack?”

“Uhhhh…” he gulped, “yeah. She liked a similar piece we’d already sold, so…” his blush spread visibly under his creamy-yellow coat, all the way up to his forehead.

“We’ll make sure she gets it, Talib,” said Twilight reassuringly, “sorry for opening it.”

Rarity just looked thoughtful. Worse, he mentally corrected himself, that’s definitely a scheming expression.

Assuring Twilight it was alright, Talib said his hasty farewells and left, retreating in the direction of home as the rain cooled his burning cheeks. He probably only imagined the giggles issuing from the library window behind him.

Earlier that morning, before Talib had even got to the cottage and wondered where Old Sim might be, the object of his eventual curiosity was already on his way through the rain to Ponyville. Outwardly, the irascible, well-muscled old stallion appeared to be sporting his usual grumpy demeanour. However, for those who could read the signs – his brother, and these days Talib was learning, too – the determined glint in his eyes suggested he was on a mission to cause somepony trouble. And looking forward to it.

Arriving at the sparsely-populated outskirts of the town, where farmland transitioned into residence and commerce, the old lumberpony adjusted course slightly, making for the Town Square and the Ponyville Town Council buildings which overlooked it. Normally, apart from renewing his logging permit every year, Old Sim had as little to do with the hopeless Council ponies as possible. Apart from Mayor Mare they were, in his characteristically cynical opinion, the worst kind of bureaucrats – part-time and amateurish, but drawn to the roles for the supposed prestige they conferred. Today, however, he would grit his teeth and suffer fools. They had something he needed.

A pleasant, burbling little stream bordered half of Ponyville Town Square (which was, in fact, circular) and Old Sim crossed the simple hoofbridge as he entered. Not for the first time, he reflected wryly on the unimaginative, inappropriate name; the first Ponyville Town Council had apparently entirely lacked a sense of irony when they’d given it, but it hadn’t taken long for the playful townsfolk to begin calling it Ponyville’s Squared Circle. The current Council still showed no indication of getting the joke.

Old Sim skirted the impressive town hall and reached the far side of the Square. The Ponyville Council Offices occupied the largest building in the Square, a three-storey affair which, apart from its size, more or less blended in with the surrounding architecture. The building was divided into two wings; the left, blockish and unexciting, contained most of the archives and paper-shufflers, and was not generally open to the public. This was connected via a flyway, permitting ponies to pass underneath, to the rightmost, public wing; a pleasant, homey-style building with a small tower (where school trips got a good view of the Square as they were lectured), and which provided the interface between government and citizen.

Old Sim arrived, as was his custom, barely five minutes after the offices had opened, while they were still quiet. The aptly-named waiting room, unoccupied as yet, held some sofas and pot plants as well as a service desk where a single pony sat, lazily flicking through the morning’s Ponyville Express. Old Sim approached the desk but the preoccupied electric-blue Pegasus, a too-young filly perhaps getting some work experience between semesters, did not look up. Old Sim’s eyes narrowed in annoyance.

“I need access to the licenses and permits registry,” he barked roughly. The young Pegasus leaning back on her chair was startled out of her wits, overbalanced and fell backwards. She scrambled up, hooves heaving her back above the desk, but the baleful glare which greeted her made her wish she’d stayed under.

“Ah, right, um…” she stammered, flustered, “everypony’s in a meeting right now. Perhaps you could wait?” She gestured hopefully to the couches with an uncertain smile.

Old Sim placed a hoof to his forehead. Meetings, he thought darkly. The Council ponies loved Meetings, it seemed. He imagined them capitalising the word like that, very official-looking. A really good Meeting could last them most of the day, whereas actual Work had a disappointing tendency to get finished, and then there was the next bit of Work to do. A pointless cycle, it doubtless seemed to them – much better to have Meetings, where work could be planned and discussed and debated and revised and budgeted endlessly, without ever having to move forward. He snorted derisively. No, he would not wait.

“Look, my little pony,” he began, sounding weary but quarrelsome, “this here’s my one rest day all week, and if you think I’m going to spend it on that couch waiting the Council’s pleasure you’ve got another think coming. I’ve been coming here for my logging permit since before you were a thought, and if you want me to go up to their Meeting and tell Councillor Filthy Rich that their work-experience filly kept me waiting for no good reason, I’ll gladly do so.” Hopefully, he’d struck the right balance of genuine threat and pain-in-the-rump attitude…

The frightened Pegasus looked at him hesitantly, clearly swayed. Now for the honey.

“Now, I don’t mean to come in here and bluster at you,” he continued in a conciliatory tone, “but I’m a real busy working pony and I’ve done this dozens of times before. Why don’t you do me a good turn so we don’t have to bother the Councillor, and you can get back to reading your newspaper?”

She thought, frowning, for a moment, then shrugged and nodded. Whether she just wanted him out of her mane or was genuinely worried about his apparent familiarity with the Council, he didn’t care. She closed the outer door and flipped the “back in five” sign forward, then led him through a rear door, up some stairs and over the flyway into the dim, dusty records room. High, shelved walls, covered in diamond-shaped pigeonholes in dark wood, repeated off into the invisible depths. In the ravines between the cliff-like shelves, clerk-ponies worked in oases of light at simple desks, shuttling all manner of documents in all directions via Pegasus assistant. It was a busy time of year, with everypony reporting their harvest yields and incomes for tax, sending weather requests for the next growing season and so forth. Despite the activity, the sound was kept to a barely-audible susurration.

Some clerks had looked up at the visitor, and Old Sim nodded recognition to a couple of the permit-clerks he knew. Seeing he was familiar with the room, the filly left him to go back to her desk and newspaper, hopefully away from pushy old stallions. Picking up one of the special fire-safe lanterns he headed straight for the logging permits, grabbing a ladder on the way and rolling it on its rails beside him till he reached the correct section. A column of pigeonholes, arranged alphabetically from floor to ceiling, ran A to P, and the one to its right Q to Z. This meant his target, Progress Group, was at the very top of the column to his left. He sighed, not enjoying heights, lined up the ladder and began the climb.

On the way, he passed “T” to his right and shook his head in disbelief to see the number of permits bearing his name. There were more than fifty, and once you included the ones for his father and brother they numbered somewhat over a hundred. The permits were hard evidence of the seemingly-impossible amount of time behind him, but like most ponies working the land Old Sim had no qualms about accepting his mortality. Life, he had learned, was inextricably bound to death like light and dark, day and night; two necessary sides of the same coin. He chuckled softly to himself. He sounded like Glade-

No. He would not think of her.

He looked down, using his nervousness at height to dispel the tumultuous thoughts, gripped the ladder hard and climbed on. Finally reaching P, he carefully rifled through the pigeonholes till he found Progress Group. He unrolled the scroll and skipped through the usual stipulations about acceptable felling rates to the number he sought.

How many acres had Progress bought a permit for?

The family were seated in the kitchen, waiting for lunch, when Talib walked in from the rain. Melaco fetched him a towel and some hot tea while Ghaliya got up to check on the roast vegetables. Bianca, less domestic, rounded on him without greeting, almost like Old Sim would have.

“What’s this Rarity tells me about you not going to the Dance?” she demanded, smacking her hoof on a courier scroll on the table. Talib could see a few lines in Rarity’s elegant hand, but the quality stationery was definitely Twilight’s.

News travels too darned fast, he lamented, when the overly-efficient Owlowiscious is involved. Mentally cursing all fleet-winged creatures and the tactical advantage they gave scheming mares, he already felt himself starting to shut off and withdraw.

“I’m not planning to go,” he said, shrugging and outwardly flippant.

“You have to go,” said his sister simply, “it’s your first year after graduation. Everypony goes then.” Talib stayed quiet.

“Everypony will be there, honey,” said Ghaliya, standing up from the oven in a warm waft of pumpkin and eggplant, “it’ll be exceedingly strange if you aren’t. Ponies will notice and talk.” She looked sideways at her nodding husband and daughter, apparently unsure how to phrase her next line. “Many already think you feel too good for them, I hear.”

Talib was shocked. How could anypony get it so wrong?

“That’s ridiculous. I’m just uncomfortable with lots of ponies around!”

“You go to Summer Harvest Parade, don’t you?” Bianca said. He glared at her.

“That’s different. Everypony’s too busy and distracted to bother about me, there. At the Dance, they’ll all feel like they need to come corner me and chat about the graduation. I-” he cut himself off, recognising the pattern. Argument would get him nowhere. A better tactic was to go sideways – play for time, let them think they had him coming round, and just… not show up, or something. Not making his case, but deceiving them while quietly sabotaging their goals. Like he’d done with the college applications. And work he had planned for tonight, come to think of it… this was in danger of becoming an unattractive personality flaw, it seemed.

But I don’t see another way to-

To what? To get his way? He shook his head and sighed. Moral philosophy could wait. Right now, he needed to get them off the subject. Semi-feigned exasperation should do it.

“OK! I’ll ask around, see who anyone else is going, and then we’ll see. Alright?”

Sensing victory, his parents smiled. His father looked particularly relieved.

“They’ll all be going, Talib, you’ll see.” He switched into jocular mode, trying to wash out the bad taste of the disagreement, “Anyway, who wants food?”

They set to eating and only Talib’s sister still regarded him with suspicion, but she kept her thoughts to herself. He had a feeling this was not the last he’d be hearing on the subject. Conversation turned to other matters, though, and Talib eventually brought out his cover story for the evening’s plans.

“I’ve been thinking about my work hours,” he started vaguely, watching his parents’ reactions. No alarm bells yet. “It seems silly to have such long days and a long walk to and from work. Old Sim’s offered to put me up in his living room, and I think I might just take him up on it, now and again.”

His parents looked surprised, as he’d expected.

“Oh,” said Ghaliya, “I suppose that makes sense… we’d miss you, though.”

“You barely see me except on my day off. I’m rarely in the house while you’re awake. And,” he continued, pressing his case, “I’d still come home if I finish early enough to see everyone. It’s just for those days where I’d get home after you’re all in bed.”

Melaco looked reluctant, but clearly saw the sense in the idea.

“Alright, son – but try to be home when you can, hear?”

Talib nodded casually, hiding his elation. After lunch, he excused himself by saying he was going to go practise some furniture-making through the afternoon and then stay the night at Old Sim’s. Nearly… half true, he thought. Leaving Melaco and Bianca to wash up, he went outside, noticing the weather turned surprisingly warm and clear, then walked to the workshop and let himself in. Stacking the practise planks and some tools in the Canes’ smallest cart, the young colt swiped his auburn mane away from his eyes and waved to his family through the kitchen window before heading off, ostensibly, towards Old Sim’s. As soon as he was out of sight, however, he took a sharp left onto a Forest trail he knew well, and let the welcoming trees take him into their cool green world.

“Look Sim, I’m not calling you a liar,” said Filthy Rich with infuriating patience, “I’m just saying they passed inspection.” Sim snorted again, an expressive action imbued with a depth of feeling all his own. Filthy Rich leaned back out of the blast zone.

Sim had nearly fallen off his ladder when he’d seen the zoning on the permit. If it had been a small number, as he’d expected, things would have been simple. A few back-of-the-envelope calculations would have convinced the Council that there was no way Progress could extract so much lumber while keeping to permissible harvest limits. But the opposite was true; the area covered by the permit was stupendous, gratuitous, unbelievable. With such an expanse, it was theoretically possible to produce as much lumber as Sim had seen going through the red-brown doors on Wood Pile’s warehouse, and still be within regulations. But Sim still didn’t believe it, though it’d taken him a while to match reason to intuition. When it had dawned on him, sensibly back on terra firma, his breath had caught in his throat. Progress might be fairly accused of audacity, but certainly not stupidity. Especially if, as it now appeared, he’d hoodwinked the inspectors. Old Sim had busted in and interrupted the Meeting immediately, to the surprise of the Council.

“It’s the speed, don’t you see?” said Old Sim, circling some figures he’d written on scrap paper, “Regular harvesting takes a lot of time – you’ve got to cruise the area, survey and mark suitable trees, prepare a centralised staging ground, plan haulage routes, and all that before you set steel to trunk. Even then you’ve got lumberponies cutting widely-distributed trees, which is much slower than clear-felling.” He stared at the councillors earnestly. “To do that over such an enormous area, and produce lumber as quickly as I’ve seen, well it just ain’t feasible.”

The councillors looked doubtful, eleven of them arrayed around a plain rectangular table in the unremarkable meeting room. Old Sim had never bothered learning most of their names. One elderly unicorn mare, a blowhard busy-body named Blythe Booke, shook her indigo mane.

“But we’ve seen that Progress Group employs a great many lumberponies,” she replied, “he must simply have enough to achieve what you claim is impossible. Whatever your commercial dispute with Progress Group, there is no evidence they’re doing anything wrong.”

Commercial dispute! Old Sim was getting ever more frustrated. These idiot councillors just aren’t going to take me seriously, he thought. One last try.

“I didn’t say it was impossible,” he said, struggling gamely for civility, “I said it wasn’t feasible. Employing the number of ponies needed, even at minimum wage, would make the whole venture operate at a loss. And nopony would work that far out for minimum wage. These numbers don’t add up and that’s just a fact, entirely separate from any commercial competition between us.” He glared at Blythe challengingly, but his forbidding temper and age held no sway with the equally formidable and elderly unicorn.

“And I said the inspectors found that the work was being carried out to exemplary standards,” she retorted, “which is more than we can say for someponies.” She looked peeved.

It took Old Sim a while to follow her implication. “Not this again!” he exclaimed. His patience, thin to start with and kept only by heroic effort, was finally lost. “I’m not felling trees for charcoal, I’m using off-cuts!” This was an old argument, hinging on archaic and unclear regulations, over which he’d butted heads with the Council for twenty-odd years. As a result, Old Sim was something of an equus non grata at these meetings. His irritable outbursts, such as this one, did little to help his case.

Filthy Rich stepped in placatingly, heading off another shouting match. “Sim, what can I say? The inspectors went out there, had a look around, and saw nothing amiss.”

“They can’t have seen the whole area,” countered Sim.

“Of course, it’s massive.”

“And I’m willing to bet Progress gave them the personal treatment.”

“I believe he did.”

“Then send them again,” concluded Old Sim, “And this time, tell them not to be guided around like puppies on a leash!”

Filthy Rich, though sympathetic, was running out of patience himself. He was a busy pony, with a business to run, and Sim’s hasty calculations just hadn’t convinced. He glanced at his fob watch. Time to bring this to an end. He started listing obstacles, tapping his hoof along the table as he did so.

“It’s at least a three week round-trip around to the other side of the Everfree Forest, and none of our inspectors are Pegasi. Even if they were, you know Pegasi don’t like to fly over it on account of the… odd weather. Among other things. The inspectors have to see it with their own eyes. It’s just not something we can do spur-of-the-moment,” he took a breath, “but I tell you what, Sim. You write this up properly, make your case as clear as possible, and we’ll consider your report in detail at the next fortnightly meeting, OK?”

Old Sim looked at them, his anger replaced with disbelief, and simply walked out.

How long has it been? Talib wondered as a sense of peace settled on him, a month? Too long. A scent of humus and, in this part of the Everfree Forest, pine needles beguiled his nostrils and he flared them widely, drinking the scent like a liquor. Without realising it, he slowly started changing: his apologetic stoop straightened and he walked his full, impressive height; his ears came alive, pivoting lazily but unceasingly this way and that, recognising a bird call here, a small rustling body in the undergrowth there; his eyes relaxed from their full-sun squint and adjusted to the green-filtered light, seeking out familiar landmarks. This part of the Forest was very well known to him, and he was home.

He struck off on a side path, deeper into the Forest, deftly manoeuvring his small cart along the trail. Occasionally, a particularly large stone or a water-cut furrow forced him to unhitch and guide it through by hoof, but generally the trail was well-cleared. He’d been the one keeping it so, following it frequently to its destination, as he did now, to seek solitude and contemplation. His relaxed, alert state was now tinged with excitement as he drew near, the sound of trickling water locking his ears forward.

The sound had expanded to include the deep hiss of a small waterfall when he cleared the dense trees and emerged joyfully into the small glade. A little hummock, carpeted with moss and clover, crouched beside a brook as though for a drink. The top was quite flat except for two sizeable boulders which met to form a small alcove, which Talib had marked for his lean-to. The waterfall was of a similar scale, barely two feet high, and clear water flowed over variously-sized stones, polished smooth and round by time and friction, and thinly covered with brown algae upon which tiny fish browsed. The scene was perfect.

Hauling his load to the flat-topped hummock, Talib unloaded everything and laid out the planks. He grabbed his plans for the rude shanty, drawn up in haste last night, and contemplated them laid flat on a board, making small revisions now that he was in the context of the glade. As satisfied as he’d ever be, he hammered together a couple of small sawhorses from the pre-cut beams he’d brought and got to work. Through the afternoon and into the evening the usually-quiet retreat was filled with the sounds of sawing and hammering as Talib assembled a rough shelter. By the time the light had faded enough to need a lantern in the still-warm evening, he was done. He stood back and surveyed his work.

From each of the two flat-walled boulders projected a very rough wooden wall, and these joined more or less at right angles to enclose the alcove, a space just large enough for the tall colt to lie down. Each wooden wall also supported boards for half the roof, which met in the middle. Entry and exit was by the simplest means imaginable: the two wooden walls were simply lifted and separated at the join, pivoting on sunken posts as he dragged them over the earth, and when closed were fastened with steel hook-and-eyelet fittings. In the back corner, where the two ancient boulders had ground each other to a perfectly impassable seam, Talib placed a wooden chest onto some offcuts so it was slightly elevated off the ground. Anything inside, he reasoned, should be mostly protected from the damp and wind. The whole inexpert thing was completely unlovely, draughty and wretched, but it would protect Talib from the worst of the weather, and anyway it was by no means his long-term solution.

Talib had realised, looking at the timeframe for his experiments, that to make it work he simply had to find a way of spending more time in the Forest. The only place he seemed able to save time was the significant round-trip, around two to three hours, from Sugarcane Farm to Old Sim’s cottage. He’d have to start sleeping in the Forest. He’d spent quite a few nights, over the last few years of exploration, camping out in the Forest for up to a week at a time but always sleeping and travelling light, and such deprivation was not practical on a regular basis. He’d needed someplace secure, comfortable and practical as a base from which to carry out the Everfree Forest component of his experiments.

Talib placed his tools, paper and other valuables inside the chest and went out to sit on the cart and eat his packed dinner. He watched through the gap in the trees as the day’s fire retreated at last even from the clouds, leaving only cool blue-black void around silvery tufts. Spending evenings in the Forest certainly had its advantages. Of course, his current hovel was merely temporary, while he worked on the permanent, larger cabin. He envisioned something small but cosy, with a frame of stout beams and clad in overlapping wooden shingles to keep the weather out. There were a lot more details to sort out, but would have to wait for another day.

Sighing contentedly, he stood and stacked the leftover beams and boards near the boulder, placing the empty cart upside down on top of them, before going to bathe and drink in the brook. The shallow water was ice-cold and his heart quickly pumped warm blood away from his extremities to his core; managing to submerge by lying dead flat, he held his breath and deliberately slowed his pulse as the gentle current passed through his coat and over his skin. Talib couldn’t remember ever passing up the opportunity to practise holding his breath underwater, but had no particular goal in doing so. He seemed to remember it beginning with Bianca as a competition between siblings, but it had become habit. On a good day, he was getting on towards two minutes.

Unfortunately, the frantic early beating of his heart, shocked at the cold water, had stolen some of his reserves and he was well shy of a personal best when he came up for air. He scrubbed and relaxed a bit more, numb to the cold now, before emerging on the far bank and looking up again at the dark, as he loved to do. The evening’s washed-clean sky was pure and deep between luminous clouds, and like a still, clear liquid it slaked some kind of thirst in Talib. He tore his gaze away and fossicked in the undergrowth for bedding, tearing off some ferns and other soft plants. He’d sleep in the open comfortably tonight, but he had observed signs that autumn’s chill might arrive in the Forest on its own schedule, a little earlier than planned for Ponyville, and he’d doubtless need the shelter in a few weeks. As he picked a last green fan from the ground covering, something unusual caught his eye in the crook of an exposed tree root nearby. Getting closer, he could see that around the root – which was lifted up clear of the soil – some very strong, very thin twine had been wrapped. Talib undid the expert knot curiously and lifted it to his lantern for a better look. The other end had been tied in a loop with a sliding knot and Talib, when the realisation struck him, dropped it in horror.

Fashioned with an art born of long practise, the simple object at his hooves was a hunter’s snare.