THE TRACTLESS RAINFOREST, WILD AND FOREVER FREE

Zecora was heading back to her hut in the woods, the hut of her master. It was late in a summer evening, just as the equatorial sun dropped below the horizon and brought a sudden twilight. She was trotting along happily; she had finished her quest earlier than she had hoped. Her master would be pleased. He might have some new white magic lessons to teach her.

A bee buzzed passed her ear. That was odd. Bees should not be out so late. Then she smelled the smoke. She immediately thought the worst, and galloped forward down the winding forest trail. She paid no attention to the branches that struck her, nor the roots that tried to trip her.

She reached the little clearing. The one that through years of hard apprenticeship she had plowed into a small subsistence farm fit for two. It was a farm fit for two, her and her master.

The fear was justified. Zecora despaired. The hut was a heap of smouldering ashes. The hives had been smashed, and the bees driven off from the smoke. The crops had been uprooted and broken. She tried to get close to the hut; but the heat was still too intense. She could just make out the charred bones of the corpse. She reached into her saddle bag and dropped the small stone idol on the ground before the hut. It had been the object of her quest, a metaphor in the next chapter of her education. The quest had taken her halfway across the continent and through more dangers that she had known existed. She would need it no more. Her master would be teaching her no more lessons.

WHOAZAMBIQUE
SEVERAL MONTHS LATER

Golden Delicious was making his rounds. He had an uneasy feeling. It was a weird combination of malaise and regret that he didn’t quite understand. The Peace Cores had given him instructional lessons about home sickness and culture shock, and what to do about it. Such things were only natural being this far from Equestria. He had gotten home sickness, and had gotten over it. That was months ago. This was something else, but he couldn’t say what. He tried to think about it and study it with all the clinical detachment he could muster. The feeling didn’t go away.

Maybe it was the patients, he thought, and at least a little bit of culture shock. He was here in the first place because the Peace Cores had help pay for his veterinary schooling, and he owed them a couple years work. And they had needed him in Whoazambique, out where they needed vets the most. Yet it felt like he wasn’t making a difference. The language barrier was part of the problem, sure. It was hard to work up a rapport with another pony when you don’t share a common tongue. Another problem was that every day he saw zebras leaving the hospital and more coming back in with the same old problems. Was he burning out already?

Take the pretty young zebra mare who came in a week ago with the cracked hoof. It was a bad injury, and it had been so infected Golden had been worried they’d have to amputate the leg. She had pulled through, they had spared the leg; but she still just lied their in traction as if her world had ended. She had barely spoken a word to him. And she had never cracked a smile that he could see.
In fact, Golden thought to himself, I should go talk to her now.

“So, how’s the hoof doing today?” Golden took her chart to have a look.

She shot him an angry look. “The bottom line? It feels fine. Don’t you know I’d like to go?”

He put the chart back on the hook at the foot of her bed. “Not quite yet, I’m afraid. We still need you off your hoof, but just a couple more days. That isn’t so bad is it? I suppose we should just make the best of it. You know, if you’ve got family or friends who could come in to pick you up, we might be able to get you out of here a little early. Assuming they can help you while you’re off your hooves, that is. If you have a phone number or address, I could try to get a hold of them.”

Her eyes shot daggers into him.
“So... Zecora’s a pretty name,” he tried. “That’s an old Ahmaric word for ‘zebra,’ isn’t it?”
“My brother was taken, my mother is dead, you can go to hell, or just leave my bed,” she turned away from him, or at least turned as far as she physically could turn with her leg in traction.
Golden left. In a hurry.
He went straight to the attending veterinarian.
“Excuse me, Dr. Machel?” Golden asked.
“Yes, hello Golden. How are your patients today?”
“They’re getting better.”
“That is an important thing.”
“Yes, but doctor, there’s one patient. She’s the zebra with the cracked hoof, she...”
“Ah yes, I know this patient, she’s been giving the nurses problems as well.”
“She has? I hadn’t...”
“She’s not from Whoazambique, you know,” Dr. Machel said.
He read Golden’s confused expression. “Her accent, I’d say she’s Kenyan. Possibly from Neighrobi. I’d say she was a war refugee. The war was years ago, she would have been just a filly. Still, war is hell, Golden. Sometimes it is very difficult to deal with war refugees.”
“Accent? You mean the rhyming?”
“No,” Dr. Machel said, “that is nothing. That’s an old bit of superstition. Magicians used to use that. A kind of mind game, it clears the head or something. Makes it easier for them to cast spells. I’m not sure how it was supposed to work. It can’t be easy doing it all day. You rarely hear it any more.”
“I thought there wasn’t any magic left in Whoazambique?”
“Not in Whoazambique, not anymore. It’s been purged since the civil wars. But in Kenya, and deep in the jungle, it still thrives. At least among backward peoples. No offense to you, as an Equestrian. But here magic has brought nothing but heartache. Perhaps her family was into practicing magic.”
“She mentioned she had lost her family. Her brother... taken. Foalnapped?”
“It happens in war.”
“Why?”
“Who is to say? If he was an adult, and well off, it could have been for ransom. A foal? More likely for foal prostitution, foal soldiering, or to work in the mines where the tunnels are narrow. Like I said, my boy, war is hell.”
“I fell like I’m going to be sick.”
“Not until after your shift, doctor. You’ve got another ten hours.”
Golden worked the next eleven hours, and then went back to his crummy apartment. He was sick. And his malaise had only gotten worse. He didn’t know how much longer he could keep this job.

MAREPUTO
CAPITAL CITY OF WHOAZAMBIQUE
MONTHS LATER

Zecora stepped out onto the pavement and into the busy, chaotic traffic. It was the typical traffic of a third-world metropolis. Buses and cars shared the right of way with rickshaws, carts, wagons, and ponies, zebras, gazelles, buffalo, antelope, springboks and giraffes on the hoof. It was total bedlam. Still, if you know where you were going, it wasn’t that hard to get there. There was a certain amount of order in the chaos.

Her bad hoof still ached after all these months, but there was nothing that could be done about that. She had a long way to go before reaching the Ingwane Slums. She was looking for another sorceress. One who was looking for another apprentice. Sorceresses were not easy to find. They were hunted by the corrupt government. Ironically, most of the few that were left were in the big city, close to the threat that had wiped their kind out.

Of those that were left, few would take apprentices at any given time. Of those, even fewer would be willing to take a student as old as Zecora was now. She had learned much from her old master, the one in the jungle although at times it felt like she had learned little. It was hard now to remember the good times, the accolades, the rewards. She always only remembered the angry lectures now, and the scoldings. She would never master the art of white magic, he would tell her, there was too much darkness in her. There was too much pain and anger and fear. She would never be a proper sorceress if she couldn’t put the past behind her.

She put the thoughts away. They hurt, probably because she knew it was true. The stuck pig squeals the loudest. She tried to focus on the job at hoof. Months of hunting and searching and doing favors for Mareputo’s underground community had given her a name and address of a potential sorceress. Rumors about her were vague. They had to be, if she wanted to survive under a dictatorship that wanted you dead. Zecora and her former master knew that all too well.

Zecora found herself in a twisting cobblestone alley behind a crowded marketplace. Through the alleyway, to the left, in an old spice store she would find an old zebra mare who might just be able to teach her what she needed to learn. She walked down the alley, turned left, and spun right back into the alley again, to hide.

She had seen the spice store. The storefront had been surrounded by large stallions in uniform. They were government soldiers. The sorceress must have been found. If she’d come just a few minutes earlier, Zecora would have been found herself. She watched from the safety of the alley as the government trucks rolled passed. A frightened old zebra mare was in the back of one of them. She was blindfolded, gagged and shackled. One of her gaolers turned to stare Zecora down as they drove past. She turned away and pretended to act casually.

Once the convoy was out of sight, she took off after them. The convoy slowed in the market; there was too much traffic. She could go where they could not. She watched them as they joined another larger convoy, then another. It was the President’s security convoy. She could see him riding in a car near the front, surrounded by pretty young mares. Behind him in other cars were his confidantes and advisers and cronies. The troops were in trucks at the end, with their prisoner.

Zecora then saw who was riding in the last car, the one before the trucks. It was a pony she recognized from some time ago. He had a brown mane and lighter brown coat. She could not see them, but she knew three golden apples marked his flank.

“No,” she said, “this cannot be. Is that him? That awful pony?”

PRESIDENTIAL PALACE
MAREPUTO
18:00

“I’ve told you before,” the old zebra mare croaked. She was tied a chair underneath a bright lamp. There was a large water basin in the corner of the small room. There was also a car battery and a pair of jumper cables. “The truth you abhor. You’ll kill me, but nonetheless, you will meet your end by the next princess.”

Mbinguni nodded. A guard struck the old mare with a shod hoof. A tooth flew.

She began to groan. Some of the guards started to shuffle on their feet, it sounded not unlike the beginning of a spell. The president was sterner, and would not be shaken.

“I want names,” Mbinguni shouted.

Her groan rose the a cackle. “You’ll get one, just before you’re finally done.”

Mbinguni spat, turned, and walked to the door. “Shoot her,” he said, to no guard in particular. A large entourage followed with him. “Lieutenant,” he shouted, as he strode down the hallway.

A lackey hustled up to his side. “Yes, sir,” the lieutenant said. A muffled shot came from behind the door.

“We found another one this morning, did we not?” Mbinguni asked.

“Yes, Mr. President,” the lieutenant answered. “The next is easy to find when the previous can foresee their location. It is a poetic irony. This one managed to put culling curses on three of my soldiers before being subdued.”

“They have been dealt with?”

“Yes, sir.”

“She is being interrogated?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Yes, well, let’s hope this next one is more cooperative,” Mbinguni said. “I am sick of back alley witches. I want the heir,” he said.

“A prophecy of that magnitude and importance is difficult, Mr. President,” the lieutenant said. “Especially since these sorceresses can foresee their own executions at your hand. They’re less likely to help find the heir for us.”
Mbinguni stopped in his tracks and glared at the lackey.
“Sir,” the lieutenant added.”

“As I was saying, lieutenant,” Mbinguni said, “I want an heir. Not witches. Not excuses.”

“Yes, Mr. President,” the lieutenant snapped a salute.
Mbinguni continued down the hallway with his entourage, leaving the sweating, trembling lieutenant behind them. He strolled through the secured double doors to the residential portion of the palace. Armed guards stood on either side.

“Vet!” Mbinguni shouted, “where is my veterinarian?”

“Here, sir,”Golden Delicious called, running forward with his first-aid saddlebag. The president’s entourage began to disperse; they were no longer needed.

“Are you feeling ill, Mr. President?” Golden asked.

“I have a boil,” Mbinguni said. “On my rump. I shall have it lanced.”

“Right away, sir,” Golden set to work.

“Tell me, my boy Delicious, how are you enjoying your new position as my personal veterinarian.”

“I’m enjoying the accommodations very much, sir,” he answered.

“Yes, the palace is very fine, my boy,” Mbinguni said.

“And I have fewer patients. Only one, in fact. And he is very healthy.”

“Ha! Thank you, Delicious. And the ponies at the Peace Cores? They have straightened out the paper work?”

“They were upset at first. But not after your men talked to them. This will hurt.”

“Good, I am glad... ahh... I am glad we could get it all sorted out. That is an important thing. Say, my boy, how are the Canterlot Coursers doing this season? I am very fond of them.”

“They’re in the play-offs, sir,” Golden said. “They’re favorites to take it all. This will sting.”

“Good, good. I am very fond of them. In fact, I am fond of all of Equestria.”

Golden didn’t respond. He knew all to well why the President had asked him to be his personal physician.

“And Princess Celestia. She is a very good ruler. I am fond of her too. I wish I could be like her. Your country of Equestria simply works. It is a powerful nation. It is full of magic. Your unicorns are very powerful. It is not like Whoazambique, where magic is gone. Here, we struggle just to survive. Our weather falls on the ground, completely uncontrolled. We need crude technology instead of magic. You know, we used to have our own princess.”

“I believe I’ve read that in a history class, Mr. President,” Golden said.

“Ah, your Equestrian history books do not do us justice, Delicious, my boy,” Mbinguni said. “She was a terrible, terrible tyrant. Not like your Princess. She was very cruel. We threw her off our backs two hundred years ago, and still our nation suffers. But at least we were and still are a democracy. It wasn’t easy, with all the civil wars, and witches trying to usurp power, trying to set themselves up as dictators, new Princesses. Many zebras were killed during the civil wars.”

“These were the zebras that could use magic, sir?” Golden asked. This country certainly had a dark history.

“Yes, yes, my boy. Some zebras are more powerful than others, you know. The Cape Mountain Zebras and the Selous’s, they suffered greatly in the wars. And the Quaggas, they were very powerful indeed. They were wiped out completely. Extinct!”

Golden couldn’t tell if it was remorse he was hearing in Mbinguni’s voice, or pride. He finished applying the bandage.

“Is there anything else, Mr. President?”

“No, Delicious. Once again, you have done a remarkable job. Isn’t my Equestrian veterinarian superb?” Mbinginu asked the milieu of guards and servants still occupying the large room.

“Yes, Mr. President,” they all agreed with varying degrees of boredom.

“Excellent,” Mbinguni responded, “now go, my boy. You’ve done your job well. A young stallion like you should enjoy the pleasures of Mareputo. Take one of my cars. Have fun. Tomorrow we shall talk more of Equestria.”

MAREPUTO’S NIGHT LIFE DISTRICT
HOURS LATER

Golden Delicious was having the time of his life. He had found himself on the dance floor of Mareputo’s hottest discotheque, “The Loft.” There had been a line out front wrapping around the block, but the bouncers had let him in straight away. His status as pony out of Equestria came with a lot of perks in this country. The DJ was spinning tunes out of Equestria, tunes that hadn’t been popular in thirty years. They were the sort of tunes that were the butt jokes back home, but not here. Everypony in the club was having a good time. Every pony, hell, every hoofed mammal in Africa was represented here. The air was filled with the scent of sweat and perfume and pheromones; an electric vibe of sex and excitement vibrated through the air, in rhythm with the beat, and the pounding of hooves on the dance floor.

Golden tried to balance his martini glass while dancing with the pretty young mares, of numerous sorts, who crowded around him. He had already had two, martinis that is, and was feeling rowdy. The jubilation of the crowd on the floor only continued to grow as the night wore on. This will end well, he thought to himself.
That was when he saw her.

She was standing by the bar, looking at him, smiling. There were a lot of zebras in Whoazambique, but he would never forget those big blue-green eyes. He thought she had been pretty back at the field hospital, now she looked gorgeous, standing there in a thin black skirt, and turquoise and silver earrings. She looked a lot happier than he remembered her. Zecora... that was her name. He walked over to her, leaving the other mares behind.

“Hi!” he had to shout over the loud music. “Zecora, right? I’m so happy to see you again.”

“Hello, Doctor. I never got to know your name before. I need to apologize for the way I acted. I need to make it up to you,” she spoke loudly into his ear, so he could hear. She blinked quickly three times.

“Oh... yeah... hey, that’s no problem. My name is Golden. Golden Delicious. I’m from Equestria!” He knew he was blowing this. That last bit was pretty stupid. Every one knew he was from Equestria. It was written all over him.

“Golden Delicious?!” Zecora said, again into his ear. “That sounds like a very powerful name. Do all stallions from Equestria have such powerful names?”

He blushed. “Oh, it isn’t that special. Golden delicious is just a variety of apples.” He pointed to his cutie mark. “Like my cutie mark. Apples. I come from a long line of apple farmers.” He grinned at her. “But I’m a veterinarian!” he added. Stupid! He thought to himself, that was so stupid! He tried not to break his concentration.

Zecora returned the grin. “Oh, I love to eat apples.”

“So do I,” Golden nodded stupidly.

“No, you don’t know what I mean,” Zecora said into his ear again, “I really LOVE to eat apples.”

Golden just blushed again.

“Let me buy you another drink, cutie,” she said.

Golden just nodded again. He hadn’t even noticed that Zecora hadn’t been speaking in rhyme.

Two hours later and they were back in at the palace. Zecora had talked him into driving the Aston-Martingale luxury sedan. He was reluctant to give up the keys, given that it wasn’t even his, and was also the President’s. But then again he was pretty tipsy. Somehow Zecora did look drunk at all. At least they had gotten back to the palace parking garage without a single ding or scratch.

Golden was trying to lead her back to his room. This really was going to end well after all.

“Oh, won’t you show me the rest of the palace?” she begged him.

“Well... I suppose... if you really want me to.” She nodded earnestly, with another smile. “Well, OK. But just the public parts. There’s a lot of places around here I’m not even allowed in.”

They found themselves in a large room with a grand stair-case and large luxurious couches before a large screen television. It was, effectively, the central living room of the palace. It was empty at this hour, except for two large armed guards standing on either side of heavy double doors. This was the entrance to the secured, business end of the building.

“Well, well,” Zecora said, trotting over to the two guards. “You never told me you had such large friends, Golden.”

“Oh, well... those are just the guards, not my friends. I mean I like them and everything. They’re pretty cool. But we’re not supposed to be talking to them.” He hiccuped. “They’re guards.”

“Aren’t you even going to introduce me to them?” she was getting close to them now, flirting with them.

“Ha... well... I don’t actually know their names. They’re not supposed to talk to us. They... or me could get in trouble,” Golden said. “I don’t think they’re even supposed to acknowledge we’re here.” He looked at the guard on the left. He wasn’t moving a muscle or batting an eye. He sort of reminded Golden of Celestia’s Royal Guards, in Canterlot, the ones that stood outside the gate. Tourists always tried to make them laugh, but they never ever budged.

“Such BIG muscles they have,” Zecora said, now stroking the shoulder of the guard on the right.

Golden looked nervously again at the one on the left. The guards eyes hadn’t moved, but he was starting to grin. Maybe he would get in trouble for this after all, he thought to himself.
That was when Zecora shot the guard on the right.

His lifeless body fell to the floor, an gaping hole in his head. Golden looked over at Zecora; she had a gun in her hooves. It was the guard’s gun, she had pulled it from his holster and shot him in the head. Now she was pointing it at the guard on the left.

The guard on the left had his hoof on his holster, but was paralyzed now that Zecora had the gun pointed at him point blank. The guard didn’t twitch. They looked into each other’s eyes and stared each other down. With no warning, Zecora shot him. He too fell dead.

“What have you done?!” Golden screamed. Now the gun was pointed at him.

“You!” she shouted, all the flirtiness dropped from her voice. “Get down on your knees and find their keys.”

He fell to his knees and started search the bodies. A large key ring was not hard to find. “But...” he tried to say.

“Get me through that door, if you want to stay alive, take me to the cells, perhaps you’ll survive.”

He fumbled the keys and finally got through the double doors. She boxed his ears with her hoof to get him to move faster. She took one last look back at the living room. There was a security camera, slowly reciprocating back on the double doors, on the bodies. She would have seconds.

“You shot those two guards!” Golden said, still in shock as he led her down the corridor, her gun sticking into his back. “They didn’t even do anything to you.”

“Take me to her cell, or I’ll send you to hell,” she told him.

“Whose cell? What cells? This isn’t a prison,” Golden said, “It’s just a palace.” He stopped and looked around. The decor of the living quarters was completely absent. It was all cement walls and fluorescent lighting. It looked more like a bunker than a palace. Zecora shoved the barrel under his chin. Golden shut his eyes tightly, expecting to be murdered.

“You work for a tyrant, you’re a stooge, a pissant. Am I to believe that you don’t know, all of the horrors that go on below?” Golden carefully opened his eyes. She was staring directly into his soul.

“He’s not a tyrant,” he squeaked. He didn’t actually know that. Sometimes he wondered. He had hoped that he wasn’t.

A look of disgust washed over Zecora’s face. “You fool, a liar, how could you ever not know? Nevermind now, just open that door.” She waved the gun at one door at random.

Golden went to unlock it, but it was already unlocked. He swung it open. It was break room. A guard at a table looked up from his bowl of soup. Zecora shoved Golden aside and shot the guard three times in the chest before he could react. Golden screamed. The shots echoed down the hallway.

“Move,” Zecora shouted, pushing him futher down the corridor. “She must be here. That much is clear.”

“Who?” Golden asked again. She didn’t answer.

The corridor grew dimmer. The heavy doors were being replaced by even heavier rusted iron doors. They had slots near the bottom. They reminded Golden of mail slots.

Zecora tapped the first one with her gun, signalling Golden to unlock it. She kept looking over her shoulder. Golden wondered if he would be able to snatch the gun from her hooves. He didn’t want to risk it. He swung the heavy iron door open. It was a cell after all. There was no prisoner. There was a patch of hay in one corner, a car battery and cables in another, and a trough of water in the third. There was a large drain in the floor, which was still wet, the floor having been recently hosed down.

Zecora signaled him to open the next cell in line. He swung it open. There was no prisoner in this either. The battery was gone, but there was a large blood stain on one wall that hadn’t been cleaned. Golden was no fool nor liar. Naive, perhaps. But he was no fool.

Golden turned to the next cell on his own volition. He had to see this through for himself. Gun or no gun. He swung open the door, and there, roped to a chair, was an old zebra mare. Zecora pushed herself past him. The old mare looked up. She and Zecora had never met before, but Zecora had come to rescue her.

“You!” shouted the old mare. “You never should have come here!” She looked down then and mumbled. “Why didn’t I know? I’m a capable seer.”

“We have to get you out,” Zecora rushed forward past Golden. “They’ll come, beyond doubt.” She began to struggle at the old mare’s bonds.

“You’re in too much danger,” the old mare moaned, “for just this old mare. It’s more than you know, you’re the one true heir.”

Zecora jumped back, her eyes were wide with shock. “But I... I am just Zecora.” She left it at that, no rhyme.

“Could somepony just tell me what’s going on?” Golden asked. He was shaking in fear.

Zecora looked at him, the rage gone from her face, “I no longer know.”

The old mare looked up at him as well. She struggled to focus. He stepped nearer.

“You? Too?” She began to laugh then. It welled up inside her.

The old mare started to chant. Golden couldn’t hear the words, or at least he couldn’t remember any words, but some how he knew that it rhymed. The ropes tying the old mare to the chair began to swell, two, then three times their normal size. They then split into a million individual twines as the rope unspun itself from inside out. The fragments fell to the floor as the old mare stood up.

“I suppose I’ll have to rescue you both then, now come with me as we escape from this pen.”

It was then that the siren went off. Somepony had discovered the bodies, and pulled the alarm. The deafening noise reverberated down the concrete corridors. They could hardly even think. The old mare left the cell and headed down the corridor in the wrong direction. The pony and the young zebra looked each other in the eye, and followed after her.

“We have to go back,” Golden shouted. “To the garage, we need the car.”

“No!,” the old mare shouted back. “Not the garage, nor escape by the hoof, too many guards, we must go to the roof.”

Golden stopped in his tracks as the two mares ran on ahead. If he stopped now, maybe he could explain everything to the guards. Maybe this was his last chance to survive.

“Do as she says, Golden!” Zecora shouted back to him. He charged up to rejoin them. He had seen the cells. There would be no going back now.

The corridor split left and right in a tee. The old mare chanted again, and there was enormous crash, followed by short screams. She came to the tee, and turned to the right. The younger two reluctantly followed. There were two more dead guards in a heap, covered by a heavy iron door that had ripped off its hinges by an incredible unseen force. There was a staircase behind where the door had just been.

“Up! Up!,” the old mare ordered. Golden and Zecora flew up the stairs. “Excuse me miss,” the mare said as Zecora rushed passed, “but I’ll take this.” She chanted again. The gun that Zecora was carrying by a strap around her shoulder undid itself, and flew up the staircase, up between the gaps between the flights themselves. They heard a smattering of gunshots, more screams. They turned to look at the old mare; but she just nodded them upwards. They passed more bodies on the way up.

Then they reached the roof access, and were out in the night air. There were guards stationed on the roof, of course. They had heard the alarm and were prepared for nearly anything. None of them expected a powerful sorceress with a royal heir to rescue. Before they could even draw their weapons they were magically thrown from their positions to the ground below.

The old mare charged across ridge of the roof at full gallop.

“Run, Golden, Run!” Zecora yelled to him, as she followed the mare.

“But there’s no where to go!” he yelled back, trying to catch up to them. “We’re on the roof!”

The old mare continued galloping down the ridge line. She did not notice the guard in the tower across the lawn. He had spotted them, and was trying to find her in his sights. The edge of the roof was coming up fast. The mare looked ahead, not down, but well ahead. The city lights of Mareputo were laid out before her. She could see her destination, that was an important thing. She slowed down just enough for those two nice foals to catch up to her.

“Are you crazy? We’re not going to ju...” Golden tried to shout. Zecora simply screamed. The old mare chanted in rhyme.

There was a blinding flash. The three of them vanished. The guard’s bullet hit nothing.

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