Through the Ice
Admiral Biscuit

Ugh. Buttonwood lets the bedroom curtains drop. The weather forecast promised a snowstorm, and the weatherponies delivered. In the half-light of dawn, she sees the snow driving across the yard, whipped into a frenzy by the winds.

A gust rattles her window, and she jerks back in surprise.

She could just go back to bed. Today’s not a good day for a pony to be out and about.

Nopony would miss her—plenty of other ponies show up at the livery first thing, and surely there won’t be that much work today. She can get back in bed, get some sleep, and never save up enough bits for the trip to Prance she wants so badly.

Buttonwood contemplates brushing her mane and decides against it. With the weather the way it is, who would notice?

She trudges down the stairs and hesitates at the back door, once again considering the advantages of returning to bed rather than preparing for work. The gusting snow blurs out the path route to the outhouse; if she weren’t intimately familiar with the yard at her rooming house, she might get lost.

She has to shiver outside the closed door for a minute or two before Mariposa emerges. The two mares exchange a brief greeting, and then Buttonwood takes her turn.

On her way back to the rooming house, she notices how Mariposa’s hoofprints have almost drifted over already. Up above, the pegasi are surely working to rein in this storm, but she can’t see them. Maybe they’ll have it under control by the time she finishes breakfast.

She noses open the back door of the house, shakes off in the alcove, then makes her way to the dining room. Some mornings it’s crowded; so far today, it’s only her and Mariposa.

The two mares sit at a table together, each with a bowl of oatmeal. Mariposa has also opted for a spoonful of scrambled eggs; Buttonwood prefers bread. Eggs make her gassy.

A few more ponies come down as they’re eating, and the room livens. Mariposa finishes her breakfast first but is polite enough to wait for Buttonwood to finish.

“You working today?”

She’s tempted to say no, but nods her head. “Yeah. Well, maybe, depends on if there’s work. If there isn’t, I’m going to come back home and sleep the day away.”

“Tempting, isn’t it?” Mariposa swallows the last bit of her morning coffee and sets the cup down. “Trains wait for nopony.”

They leave their plates and cups on the table; Laurel will be around to pick them up.

The duo walk together for a few blocks, until Buttonwood turns off the main street to head for the livery.

The strong winds have blown out some of the street lamps, which gives the road an odd look. Most mornings, the lights stretch out in front of her, but now sometimes the street fades into grey-white shadows. It’s still early; once the sun comes up, it will light things up more. The storm can’t extinguish the sun.

Buttonwood could find her way to the livery with her eyes closed. Gusting wind, drifting snow, and darkened street lamps don’t stop her. A familiar building on her left, the lamp in front of the door burning brightly. It’s not too late to go back home and get in bed.

She has to tug with all her might to pull the door closed: the wind got a hold of the edge of it and doesn’t want to let go. She’s not willing to let the wind win—she made it this far—and gives the door a firm pull, and then she’s inside, surrounded by comforting smells and noises.

Some ponies like to get dressed for work at home, but she doesn’t want to keep her harness at the rooming house. She prefers getting dressed at work: it gives her an extra few minutes to get her mind in the game, to hear the latest gossip, and sometimes to convince Sedge to be harness buddies with her.

This morning, she beat Sedge to the livery, and she’s almost alone. Woodrush has her harness mostly on. Woodrush doesn’t need help, she’s got a fancy easy-on harness with patent buckles because she’s built like an ox and always gets good loads.

She’s jealous of the latter, but not the former.

“Morning, Woodrush. What do you think about this weather?”

“I’m glad I’m big, it won’t blow me over.” She glances up at the ceiling and the pegasi surely soaring high above. “Winds like this, I wonder how they even keep their stations?”

“I dunno,” Buttonwood says. She’s never really thought about it. “It’s what they do, I guess.”

“Maybe they wonder how we pull wagons,” Woodrush says. “I hope we’re not the only two ponies on today.”

“Me, too.” Buttonwood pulls her harness off its peg and starts putting it on. She’s adjusting the yoke when a blast of cold air finds its way into the room, followed by Sedge.

“Morning, ladies. Ready for a fun day?”

Her heart beats faster in her chest. “Yeah. Looks like we’re the only ones here. We’ll be getting the best loads.”

“The best loads for the best ponies.” He gives Woodrush, who’s on her way out of the locker room, a hoofbump, then a second for Buttonwood.

The two of them dress each other, alone for most of the process. A whole cluster of ponies blow in together, the crew from the rooming house at the other end of town. She’s cinching Sedge’s belly band when they arrive, and that leads to a few good-natured jokes which leave her cheeks burning, and then it’s down to business.

Heliotrope gives them their assignments for the day. They’re given out on a first-come first-assigned basis generally, with the exception of specialty loads. Today’s unlikely to be a day for that.

She’s assigned a train station load, same as Sedge. The two of them hitch up to flatbed wagons out in the storage yard. Being early has other perks as well; first out the door means she gets to pick one of the better flatbeds.

They’re nominally all the same, although the paint and wear vary from one to the next. Mechanically, they’re not all in equal condition. That one has lousy brakes, the one next to it has a worn-out kingpin, and three carts down the line is the one with the weak spring on the right side. That can be taken into account when it’s loaded, but the stevedores at the train station are always in a hurry and put things wherever is most convenient for them.

She takes it anyway, because Sedge is backing up between the shafts of the wagon next to it.

The lean to the right isn’t that bad.

There’s a colt who’s supposed to help them hitch to their wagons, but he’s at the other end of the yard, working with Woodrush.

She helps Sedge get hitched up, her lips sticking to the cold latches.

He can move back and forth enough to get one side of her cart fastened, and she gets most of the rest of the other side. She’s been pulling carts long enough to know how to hook herself up, even if it’s easier with a friend. Once they’re out of the yard, out of the cluster of wagons, he gets the final ring on her breeching strap hooked, and the two of them trudge off to the train station together.

There aren’t many ponies out, only those who have to be are braving the storm. He’s nearly lost in the blowing snow—she can only occasionally see him, even though he’s only two ponylengths plus a cart in front of her.

The striking of the town clock is muffled by the snow.

By the time the train arrives—late—there are eight ponies lined up at the freight dock. The railroad stevedores have already unloaded one delivery wagon, then retired back into the warmth of the station.

Technically, she could do the same. There are more wagons than ponies backed up to the loading dock. She doesn’t trust the ponies who load her wagon, though—they put things wherever it’s most convenient for them, and today is not the day to get a surprise load of pipe.

Most of her fellow livery ponies have the same idea, and just stand around gossiping. Mariposa comes out of the train station with a pot of fresh coffee and offers them each a cup to warm up. The train will be slightly delayed due to weather.

She should have worn a hat. Her ears are freezing, and every now and then she has to hold up a forehoof and exhale into it to blow some warm air back on her muzzle. At least she can move far enough to press up against Sedge’s side, and that helps.

When Woodrush and Bayberry began discussing last night’s buckball game, she tunes them out and imagines Prance. Is it really as pretty as the pictures? One day she’ll find out for herself.

The distant whistle of the train is torn asunder by the wind. An imagined noise, wishful thinking, until it happens again, and this time there is no doubt, the train is coming. Ears perk and heads turn, even knowing that they won’t see it until it’s almost on top of them.

It comes in a swirl of smoke and steam and snow, brakes shrieking. The locomotive thunders past, and for a moment she has a glimpse over her shoulder of the gaping maw of the beast before it’s blocked by the tender and a line of express cars.

Stevedores mob the platform. To her left, passengers are disembarking; to her rear, heavy doors are dragged open; to her right, a waterspout is swung over the tender. Locomotives are thirsty beasts.

The mail is the first priority. The head of the line is reserved for the mail cart, and two dedicated ponies transfer the heavy sacks of letters, followed by packages.

Their end of the platform is also quickly served—nopony wants to delay the train, so the cargos are quickly offloaded and new cargos loaded on, and the train departs with her wagon still empty.

Bayberry is on platform duty today, queen of the stevedores, and she makes short work of splitting the cargo. From her office, she can see the ranks of ponies waiting for the train, and she has loading manifests telegraphed to her, so she can plan.

Buttonwood gets a heavy load. Three barrels of nails, a crate of pipe fittings, two spools of twine, a small box of patent horseshoes, and a collection of chicken incubators and feeders on the back of the wagon. Cash on Delivery for the chicken appurtenances.

Her first stop will be Ancona’s farm, to drop off the chicken supplies, followed by Garden Stone’s farm with the twine, and then back into town with the rest. She would have preferred to unload in town first and then drag a mostly empty wagon out into the country, but knew better than to protest her instructions. Ponies who didn’t follow instructions didn’t get jobs.

There is a small pouch on her harness where Bayberry sticks a copy of her orders, just in case she forgets, and the C.O.D. form for Ancona’s chicken accessories .

The roads in town at least get rolled occasionally and have enough hoof traffic to keep them clear. That isn’t the case outside town—fences and treelines sort of define the road, but with the blowing snow she occasionally wanders off-course before she feels the wagon start to tilt over in a ditch, and has to pull it back to the road.

She also misses the turnout to Ancona’s farm. She loses count of how many she’s passed, and went two farms further before she realizes her mistake. That wouldn’t have happened in the city, where the houses and businesses were built close enough to the road to be seen, even in a snowstorm. Where they had signs on them.

She has to be careful turning around the wagon; the stevedores have loaded it wrong and it is already leaning to the right. If she gets the front axle turned too far, it is liable to tip over, and she’ll have to get herself unhitched, unload it, get it back on its wheels, re-load it, and then rehitch herself, all in a snowstorm. Besides the unnecessary labor, that will delay her for hours, and she has every intention of being safely back in the rooming house before dinnertime.

Especially if the snow keeps up.

Ancona’s driveway is straight, at least, and well-marked by a pair of stone fences. She follows it back to the barn, and when she arrived, knocks loudly on the door.

A moment later, it opens, and Ancona sticks her head out. Chickens wait for nopony.

She sometimes has to help unload—she’s already anticipating that with the barrels of nails. The ponies at the hardware store are always busy, and she’s not a priority.

Ancona doesn’t require assistance; she slides the door fully open as Buttonwood turns and backs in, then pulls it back shut as soon as Buttonwood’s muzzle clears the track on the floor.

With the door closed, the barn is snug and cozy, and the clucking of chickens replaces the howl of the wind.

Buttonwood isn’t a fan of eggs—they make her gassy—but she accepts a thick slice of quiche, oozing with cheese and bursting with green. It’s still warm from the oven.

She reaches back into her pouch and pulls out the order form for the chicken supplies. Ancona fusses over the incubators and feeders, making sure that they survived their train journey and wagon journey with no harm, then marks the paper accepting receipt of the delivery. She’s got an account at the train station and needs not hoof over actual cash.

The snow and wind have not abated in the slightest. As Buttonwood trudges down the driveway, she considers her next stop. There isn’t an actual crossroad until nearly in town, and if she’s going all the way back she could drop off the nails and plumbing fittings before heading back into the country to deliver the twine.

Or she can take a shortcut. She knows the borders of the farms reasonably well, and in the wintertime with the ground frozen over, ought to be able to follow the cowpath across to the next road.

She almost misses the turn-off. Even the trees look different in the blowing snow.

She hesitates, making sure she’s got the correct location. If she’s wrong, she’ll drop into a ditch . . . but she’s leading the wagon, and as long as she moves slow, she’ll feel the ground slope down in time to back up.

Careful steps, until she’s sure she’s clear of any ditch that might be hidden under a drift. A split-rail fence on her right side, that’ll be her guide. The route might be bumpy, but it’s quicker.

She’s focused ahead, on the ghostly fence on one side. To the other, her visibility fades into nothing but whiteness.

It’s not a shortcut she often takes. She knows it’s there, but doesn’t know it as well as she knows some other parts of town.

The fence, her guide through the otherwise featureless whiteness, ends.

Well, not ends; it continues at a ninety-degree angle, and that means that she’s made it to the next road. There were a few minutes on her journey where she hadn’t been sure.

She doesn't remember this being a T intersection, but it looks like it is. While her shortcut was nearly featureless, nothing but snow with a single set of hoofprints and wagon tracks that are now likely drifted over, she can see the driven-down snowpack. A curious feature of the land has left this intersection nearly clear of fresh snow, and she can see shoeprints leading forward and left, see the marks of wheels and runners. She turns south and that’s a mistake but she doesn’t know.

The snow gusts and blows, erasing her tracks along the fenceline but keeping the intersection clear.

Buttonwood has the wind at her back and it’s a pleasant change. It feels warmer, even if it isn’t really. Garden Stone, who’s going to receive two spools of twine, has a farm that’s easy to spot even in this kind of weather; he’s got a giant wooden turnip right next to the road so everypony will know what he grows. He even dresses it up for holidays which is kind of silly but the stallion really loves his turnips and who is she to judge?

The trees and bushes alongside the path are greyed out by the blowing snow. She’s going downhill but doesn't know it; she thinks the cart is easier to pull because the wind is at her back.

The only obvious sign that she’s crossed onto the ice is the dearth of trees and shrubs to her side, and she doesn’t notice that right away. Not until she is far out on the ice, well beyond sight of land.

Ice cutters work through the winter, carving out blocks and carrying them back to the ice-house. It’s a motley crew of farmponies otherwise idle for the winter, aspiring livery ponies who are green enough that all they can be trusted not to break is blocks of ice, and a few greymanes who organize the whole thing. Buttonwood has never been pressed into ice service before, and has no warning as she suddenly drops a hoof-length off what she thinks is a road.

Stupid frost heaves. Her hind legs, at least, are prepared for the dropoff, and she is experienced enough to grab the wagon brake so it doesn’t overrun her as it follows.

She hasn’t anticipated that it won’t only drop, but it would sink.

The loud crack sounds like something on the wagon snapped, and she wonders if one of the leaves on the right side finally reached its limit. It doesn’t sound like what she imagines a weak leaf spring breaking would sound like, but she’s never heard a spring break.

The front wheels of the wagon are through the ground and she can’t make any sense of that at all. Wagons fall into ruts but they don’t fall through the ground.

She feels the formerly secure footing underhoof shift as the wagon pushes downwards and splays her hooves instinctively, before the entire wagon drops all the way through the thin ice.

The shafts tilt upwards, forcing against her barrel, and she braces herself but it does no good. She barely registers water out of the corner of her eye as the wagon slides off the lip and into the depths.

It hangs up briefly as it high-centers on the ice, and she still can’t understand why the ground is trying to swallow her up, but is aware that the wagon will doom her.

There are four buckles which need to be unfastened, two on her yoke and two more on the breeching strap. She has time to get the first one on the breeching strap before the wagon lurches for the last time, shoving her forward as it tips off the edge of the cut ice, and then it breaks completely through, yanking her off the thin skin of ice and into the hole.

She’s never learned to swim, and it wouldn’t matter if she had. Barrels of nails, a crate of patent shoes, plumbing fixtures, two spools of twine and the deadweight of the wagon pull her down, don’t give her time to unfasten any more of the buckles before she’s hopelessly tangled in her harness, don’t give her any opportunity to attempt to ponypaddle to safety.

Buttonwood’s experience pulling a wagon is useless underwater. She still doesn’t fully understand what’s happened to her as her lungs fill with water and her vision greys out.

The common room at the rooming house was full of ponies. Mariposa looked around for Buttonwood, but didn’t see her.

Must have worked late. The storm had thrown everything into chaos—every train had been delayed, and she’d spent all day issuing new orders to the engineers. She’d glanced out at the platforms a couple of times, and of course Bayberry had groused about lazy ponies taking the day off.

She couldn’t blame them. If her job weren’t essential, she might have been tempted to do the same, but trains waited for nopony.

Laurel had decided to make a thick stew for dinner, a good choice for a lousy day. The pegasi hadn’t managed to get the storm under control until almost quitting time. It was pretty now, as long as she ignored the drifts. A few near the train station had been barrel-high.

At least she didn’t have to haul a wagon in that kind of weather.

She could have stayed in the common room, waiting for her friend, but she had a half-read Daring Do novel in her room.

Sedge got tapped for a second run, then a third. He wasn’t keen on spending all day in the blowing snow, but didn’t want to turn down bits when they were offered, so he agreed. By the time he finally got back to the yard for the night, it was dark, his mane was almost completely frozen, and his hooves were numb.

He stopped in the changing room long enough to verify that he was alone, and decided against removing his harness. He could go back to his house, let it thaw out some, and undress there. Not as easy alone, but he didn’t feel like waiting around at the livery for the next pony to arrive—if there was a next pony to arrive. Even the yard colt was long gone, surely safe at home from the blowing snow and bitter cold.

The next day, the storm had broken. A few fat flakes lazily drifted down, the very tail end of the weather.

Mariposa missed Buttonwood again at breakfast. She stayed in the common room as long as she could, before making her way to the train station. It had been hectic yesterday, and if Buttonwood was sleeping in, she’d earned it. She’d spent all day yesterday in the weather . . . but Mariposa was going to go to her room after work, knock on the door, make sure her friend was all right.

Sedge wore his harness to work, checked in, and went right to the yard to hitch up to a wagon. He was the first to do so, although he didn’t know that. The yard was one wagon short, but he didn’t know that, either. Heliotrope assigned him, as usual, to the train station, and he stood beside Woodrush as he waited for the morning train to arrive.

Garden Stone didn’t wonder about his missing twine for days. The ponies at the hardware store were overworked and understaffed, and none of them noticed missing barrels of nails or an absent crate of pipe fittings, not until months later when an inventory was taken and they weren’t found.

The farrier learned after a week’s correspondence that the shoes had been delivered to the train station.

Ice cutters labor throughout the winter, carving out blocks and carrying them back to the ice-house. Farmponies not working in the winter, greenhooved livery ponies who can’t be trusted with anything else, and a few greymanes who organize the whole thing all make their way back to the lake. Yesterday was a bust; yesterday the weather was bad and it was better to stay at home and sleep late. Today, they’ll pick up where they left off, and so they gather together with their wagons and sledges and saws and tongs and make their way past Garden Stone’s farm and to the lake. The snow on the ice makes it more dangerous, but they know where they’ve cut and proceed with caution to the edge of the thick ice. One spot is thinner than the rest, barely a skin of ice over the dark water, but they don’t notice. They’ve got to make up for yesterday.

Mariposa knocks on Buttonwood’s door, but nopony answers.

Author's Notes:

First off, a big thanks to Somber, ROBCakeran53, and SirNotAppearingInThisFic for pre-reading!

Story notes HERE