Chapter Twenty Five

Letters of a Safari

When Spike awoke next, the sun was still high in the sky. He couldn’t have been asleep for more than an hour or two, though the clouds that had rolled in had definitely not been there when he fell asleep.

“Well, that wasn’t a very long nap,” a voice said. Spike looked over to see Wells sitting up, his back against a crate as he finished bandaging up his side. The cloth looked clean, so at least the bleeding must have stopped.

“Well, I wasn’t that tired anyway,” Spike said, looking around. Asalah and Meia were grooming Maria’s mane, and Trixie merely rolled over in her sleep, muttering something about “bottles”. Maybe she was thinking about when it came time to nurse her-, no, their foal.

“I thanked your wives for their assistance,” Wells said, nodding in their direction. “Without their care, I would have undoubtedly bled out in my sleep.” The pony did look a bit pale under his pelt, though he would have undoubtedly been paler had they done nothing.

“It was the least we could do for the pony who saved us from that sandstorm,” Maria replied as Meia gently bunched up parts of her mane into braids.

“Yes, well, don’t count on being saved for too long. Undi won’t be too happy his only son is dead,” Wells said softly, examining the locket in his hands.

“His son was a villain, just like you described: how much worse could Undi be?” Spike asked.

“Much, much worse,” Wells said, slowly getting to his hooves and walking towards the controls. Fiddling with a few knobs and levers, the craft began to slowly descend.

“I see a village down there,” Asalah said, looking over the side as the airship continued its downward movement.

“Yes, we are in the lands of the Marsabit tribe,” Wells said, pulling another lever.

“Marsabit?” Spike asked, scratching a bit. Some of his scales were beginning to shed, but for the moment they stuck fast in with the rest of them.

“Yes, the Marsabit tribe,” Wells repeated. “A tribe of zebras who specialize in captive breeding of local birds: they are quite good at it. They also excel in potion-making and have a fascinating linguistic vocalization.

“A ling-what?” Meia asked, smoothing out her clothes as Trixie rose with a yawn.

“To put it simply, they speak in rhyme,” Wells said. “Truly, to be among them is like stepping into another world. If you have no idea how to rhyme or understand it, you might not want to say anything.”

Two thoughts struck Spike at this, with the foremost being asked first. “How do you know all of this?” Spike asked the earth pony stallion as the craft gently touched down on the surface of the ground.

“I’ve traded with them before,” Wells said simply, wincing slightly as he stepped away from the controls and grabbed some rope. “Help me tie this craft down, would you please? I need to see their shaman.”

Spike did as he was asked, helping strap the machine down to the ground with a few hard-driven stakes and a few large rocks here and there. As he did, though, he couldn’t help but mull over in his head what Wells had said: these zebras spoke in rhyme.

“Is this Zecora’s native tribe? Her ponies?” Spike wondered as his wives got off the airship. They were dressed in loose robes and veils similar to a turban in design, though the colors were very pale. It helped disperse the sun’s harsh rays and make sure the wearers didn’t suffer heatstroke.

Wells pointed out towards a cluster of trees in the distance. “There is their main village: we’ll be there in an hour or so.”

“Are you sure you should walk with your injuries? Wouldn’t it have been easier to just fly there and land the dirigible nearer the village?” Trixie asked in curiosity.

“Last time I tried that, I had three spears thud into the bottom of the hull,” Wells said with a weak laugh. “They don’t mind strangers, but I’m afraid my craft was too alien for them to just accept like one would a carriage. Even now I don’t think they’d let me “park” my airship so close. Don’t worry: it won’t be long.”

So they began to walk, Spike carrying the camera around his neck, snapping pictures as they went. A weaver bird here, a wattled crane there: heck, even a few rhinos off in the distance. Even farther off, a few giraffes looked in his direction before turning away: they seemed to be heading for a river even farther off.

As he snapped more and more pictures, Spike realized his mind was off somewhere else. These Marsabit zebras could indeed be Zecora’s tribe, but how was he going to ask without sounding like a complete buffoon? Even more pressing, how was Asalah going to react to these zebras? She had confided in him that she had only known zebras living in cities like other ponies: these were possibly related to her ancestral ponies.

Any historian or archaeologist worth their salt knew that the zebra race evolved from pony-like ancestors that migrated from a place in Central Asia or somewhere close by: nopony knew the definitive answer. They were cousins of earth ponies, though how close yet remained unsolved. They could regularly interbreed and produce viable offspring, though that wasn’t too common. Most zebras stayed in Africa, after all: it was their home and many just didn’t want to leave.

Spike mused on this information until he gently bumped into Maria, who had stopped. Softly apologizing, he looked around: they were already at the village, with Wells speaking with a rather old zebra a ways off from the rest of them.

“Spike, come on over: I’d like you to meet somepony,” Wells said, looking back at the dragon. After Spike walked forward with his wives in tow, Wells looked between the dragon and the elderly zebra.

“Spike, this is Kalahari, the chieftain of the tribe,” Wells said.

“Hello, sir,” Spike said, politely offering his hand to the elderly zebra like any gentledrake would. Just then, though, a thought occurred to him: what if they didn’t know how to shake hands? What if there was some local custom where they had to stomp their feet, or worse, that shaking one’s hand meant a marriage proposal to one’s daughter? Oh no, not agai-,

His thoughts were cut off by Kalahari shaking his outstretched hand. “A pleasure meeting you, young drake,” the zebra said. “It seems your thoughts are very much awake.”

“Oh, yes,” Spike said: had his thoughts really been that transparent? “If I may introduce you, these are my wives,” Spike said, redacting his hand and gesturing towards the four curious mares behind him. Some of the local zebra mares had approached them and were poking at their unusual clothes, as they themselves wore simple loincloths and toga-like clothes. “Maria, Meia, Trixie, and Asalah,” Spike said, each mare nodding in return when her name was spoken.

“Quite the herd you have, master dragon,” Kalahari said, smiling again like a kindly old grandfather. “Please, allow me to roll out the welcome wagon.” He raised his hands up and gave three short claps, and suddenly Spike, Wells and the four mares were completely carried off by dozens of zebras. For some reason, they were all mares, though the fact that no stallions could be possibly feeling up his own wives put Spike’s mind at ease.

Soon enough, as if in the blink of an eye, they were all around a fire, rather plain rugs underneath their posteriors so as to not terribly dirty themselves. The ground around them was bare, as if the surface had been compacted for a very long time by the movement of countless hooves. Wells was whisked away to a small hut, where an even older-looking zebra was waiting for him.

“Worry not for your friend,” Kalahari said as he wobbled his way towards Spike and his wives. He used a small stick almost like a crutch: he was old, give him a break. “A simple task, it will be, for his body to mend.”

“Thank you, sir,” Spike asked, glad he had grown up around Zecora: he could at least understand rhyming better than somepony or somedragon with no experience. “How long have you known Wells?”

“Oh, a few years, I believe,” the zebra said. “To live in this place, so far from home, is quite a feat to achieve.”

“Yes, well, after this, I think he’ll be heading back,” Spike said as three zebras came by with a few bowls of fruit. Thanking the mares, Spike’s wives eagerly began to eat the sweet-smelling fruits: Spike snagged one with his tail and popped it into his mouth.

“Sir, if I may ask, where are all of your stallions?” Maria asked after she had finished her small mango. Indeed, besides Kalahari and the shaman now helping Wells, they hadn’t seen a single zebra stallion in the entire village.

“Out into the fields, I sent them. Some to farm, and some to investigate an airship with a strange emblem,” Kalahari asked, apparently not offended that a mare had spoken in his presence: obviously culturally different than Asalah’s own zebras.

“That would likely belong to the thugs that attacked us,” Meia said with a small scowl as she reflexively rubbed her hand over her belly. “Spike and Wells drove them off: their leader, the one called Bara, perished in the attack.”

“Ah, this Bara I know,” the chieftain said with a small scowl of his own. “I still find it hard some parents can let such an evil grow.”

“Have you had problems with him and his zebras in the past?” Spike asked as his wives sidled up next to him. He hoped those fruits didn’t have an aphrodisiac in them, or else things might get very embarrassing for them.

“Yes, they have been troublesome before, though for now they trouble us no more,” Kalahari said. “I would like to ask why you are here, sir Spike. In fact, I believe all of your reasons must be alike.”

Spike looked at Meia and Trixie, as Asalah and Maria were whispering about one particularly juicy fruit they were sharing between themselves. His two attentive wives nodded: they could trust this zebra.

“Well sir, you see, I’m sort of on a journey around the world,” Spike said. “I’m heir to a seat of power in the lands of Equestria, and one of the requirements was that I marry at least three ponies to help expand my line. I got four,” he added with a slightly sheepish smile.

“Ah, Equestria I have heard much about,” Kalahari said. “I wanted to visit sometime in my youth, but at home sadly, there was a drought.”

“That reminds me, sir,” Spike said, thinking about visitors to Equestria. “Would you by chance happen to know of a zebra named Zecora?”

“You have seen her?” the stallion asked, his eyes widening in surprise. “When? Where? Was there anything wrong with her fur?”

“Wait, what?” Spike asked. “No, last time I saw her, her pelt was just fine. She lives in Equestria now, and has been since I was much younger.”

“Oh, well now I know where she has gone,” Kalahari said, wiping some errant sweat from his brow. “But enough of that: the past is something we do not usually dwell on.”

“Why is that?” Meia asked.

“I believe I can answer for Kalahari,” a voice said. Several heads turned to see Wells emerge from the shaman’s hut, looking quite a bit better than he had when he went in. “You see, this “Zecora” of which you speak, is likely his daughter, also named Zecora. She left the tribe many years ago to find her own place in this world.”

“Zecora is Kalahari’s daughter?” Spike asked, feeling about as shocked as he had when he found out about his own marriage requirements. “Then... why doesn’t he want to talk about her?”

“The Marsabit zebras believe you take away the power of a ponies’ name when you say it too many times,” Wells said. “They are just fine when others say names of those who are not there, but to repeatedly say somepony’s name, especially a dead or far-away pony, is to show them a bit of disrespect. Nothing terrible, of course, but something somepony would consider a tad rude in their own culture.”

“Oh, well I guess that makes sense,” Asalah said, realizing just how different zebras on the same continent could be. She had been braiding Trixie’s mane during this time, with Maria fixing her own with a bit of magic.

“Kalahari, if I may ask,” Spike said, another thought crossing his mind. “I am a dragon, a relatively rare sentient creature. Yet, you don’t seem that off-put or weirded out by my appearance. Why?”

“Simple, you oh-so-rare drake,” Kalahari said with a smile. “Many others like you have made a similar, if simple, mistake. We do not see what one looks like as a judge of one’s being. To judge on the inside, and have such a realization, to many, is quite freeing.”

“Ah, I see,” said Spike, just now understanding why he felt such a kindred spirit in Kalahari. He didn’t judge others based on appearance or the way they seemed: it was all on how they acted and who they were, inside and out.

“It is getting late, my honored guests,” the elderly zebra said, rising to his hooves. Indeed it was: night was beginning to fall and already zebras could be seen approaching the village: the stallions who had been absent were returning. “You will sleep in the central hut: it has less pests.” He made a motion for them to follow him, which they all did.

“Pests?’ Spike whispered to Wells.

“Oh, you know: ants, flies, the occasional snake,” Wells said. He saw the look in Spike’s eyes. “Don’t worry: out here, poisonous ones are so rare it’s a miracle if you find one.”

“Why’s that?” the drake asked as they entered the hut after Kalahari. It was rather roomy, and the wooden bed-like structures were off the ground. Spike set the pack he had brought with him on the ground next to the largest one.

“A disease wiped many of them out a few years ago: nopony knows why,” Wells replied, thanking Kalahari. He talked with the zebra as Spike turned to his own wives.

“Well, there are five beds total, and unless one of you is willing to sleep on the floor, I’ll be sharing with one of you,” he said.

“Well, Maria had you last time, Meia before that, and I myself before her,” Trixie said, counting themselves off of her fingers. “I guess that means it is Asalah’s turn: wouldn’t you agree?”

“Yes, yes,” Asalah said, her mane done up in a rather unique and beautifully braided pattern. “I wouldn’t mind at all.”

Just as they finished the decision-making process on who would sleep where, Kalahari bid them goodnight and left the hut. Wells walked over to them, his hand fiddling his necklace once again.

“Well, he said it was a three day’s ride from here to the coast, as you did say you wished to go to Maredagascar from here,” the earth pony said.

“That is correct,” Meia said as she climbed up into her own bed. “By ride, do you mean the airship?”

“No, by ride I mean we’ll be taking the local means,” Wells said.

“And that would be...?” Spike asked.

“Elephants: there’s a small tribe of them nearby that loves to take travelers across the plains.” Wells stretched a bit before surveying his bed: clearly he was wondering just how hard or soft it would be.

“There is?” Maria asked from up in her bed, clearly astonished such a thing was real. “I thought only elephants in India did that sort of thing.”

“These elephants learned to do this many years ago: from what I hear, it was an alicorn who informed them of such a lucrative means of gaining money and food,” Wells said as he finally climbed into his bed.

“Is anypony here not too tired yet?” Spike asked. His wives shook their heads: they were still rather awake. “Good: I think now would be a good time for those letters you all promised to send.”

Retrieving the ink, quills and papers from his pack, Spike equally handed them out to his four wives. Settling with his own, he began to write.

“Dear Celestia, things sure do have a rather odd way of fixing themselves when a problem arises. Earlier today we were assaulted by bandits after being saved by a Mr. H. G. Wells, who used his airship to save us from a sandstorm. We fended off the pirates, one of whom just so happened to have a priceless heirloom of Well’s that they had stolen before. We are all okay now, though Well sustained an injury getting his heirloom back and is talking of going back home to Equineland.”

He paused for a moment, deciding it’d be best not to tell Celestia about Bara’s threats. “In a few days I’ll be sending back anything I’ve collected since my last “deposit”, if you will, and much of it will be or Fluttershy, as she is the one making a collage on animals, I believe?”

“Sincerely, Spike Dragul.” As Spike finished with his letter, Maria was going over her own, the thoughts of what to say echoing through her mind. She had never had a pen-pal before, let alone three, and she had written one slightly longer than she thought she would.

“Dear Rarity, Rainbow Dash and Pinkie Pie, I do say this country has its own beauty in it. Trust me when I say, though, that I doubt I will ever be coming back here. Today we were accosted by a rather nasty thug and his cohorts: only the brave actions of Spike and our companion, a Mr. Wells, saved us all from a most unpleasant fate.”

Her eyes glazed over slightly as she recalled the memory that had been an experience only several hours ago. “I won’t go into the details in this letter, but suffice to say Spike is certainly coming into his own. He is becoming braver and more confident since I met him in Spreign, and I do so hope he will continue to show just how wonderful a husband he is. I can’t begin to tell you all the little things he does: the hoof massages after a long day’s walk, the way he sets us up for bed before falling asleep himself, the tenderness he shows for us...”

She stopped right there, feeling a bit embarrassed she had written that. “But enough of that: I hear Maredagascar is a wondrous place, filled with history, culture, and exquisite fashion for the region. Should we come across more of it, I would be delighted to send you back anything and everything I can.”

“Sincerely, Maria.” She reached down and tapped Spike on the shoulder, handing him her letter. He took it from her, his lips grazing her soft hand ever-so-slightly. She giggled softly and lay back on her bed.

Trixie and Asalah looked over their letters together, trying to find anything amiss in either ones’. Trixie looked over Asalah’s, which began simply enough.

“Dearest Fluttershy and Zecora, it may surprise you that I am sending this letter from the very village of the Marsabit zebras. Are you, Zecora, the daughter of the chief, Mr. Kalahari? I am amazed how different he treats others: it is really a very wondrous thing, to be honest. He is so polite and soft-spoken: he almost reminds me of you, Fluttershy.”

Trixie paused for a moment as she continued to read the letter: with a small burst of magic, the ant that was crawling up her back flew out of the hut’s door. “We have only been here a short while and I already can feel a bit of my ancestral lands calling to me. I will stay with Spike, that is for certain, but still I cannot help but feel strangely at peace in this place. When I get to Equestria, I would like for nothing more than the three best tour guides to help me “fit in”, as they said.”

“Sincerely, Asalah.” Trixie turned to the zebra, who was just finishing up on Trixie’s own letter.

“This is a very nice letter, Asalah,” Trixie said softly as she handed it to Spike.

“Thank you,” Asalah said as she finished reading Trixie’s. “Yours is as well, though I must ask: why all the double-speak and asking for these “secret” books?”

“Spike won’t want to risk upsetting the pregnancy, Asalah, and a mare has needs even when she’s carrying a foal,” Trixie whispered. “Just because he can’t put his “soldier” where I’d like it most doesn’t mean he won’t be able to use it somewhere else.”

“Your pregnancy could be damaged if he had sex with you the normal way?” Asalah whispered, her eyes going wide. “I never knew that could happen.”

“Oh, it’s normally not a problem, but with a dragon as well “equipped” as Spike, it would be taking a chance neither of us would want to risk,” Trixie said, though she smiled as Asalah handed the letter to Spike. “This way, I’ll find any new ways of “spicing” up the marriage in the future, should we grow tired of the same routine.”

“I doubt I could grow tired of him,” Asalah whispered with a small smile. Ever since the trip up the river, she had been smiling more and more: it really did accentuate her exotic beauty.

“I know: good night,” Trixie whispered, climbing up into her bunk. Asalah slid down and lay in the larger bed, waiting for Spike so she could snuggle up against him.

Meia looked at them all from her spot, and then back down to her letter. She had taken longer to write it: not because it was longer, per se, but because she had needed to more carefully word it in case somepony found her origins a tad suspicious.

“Dear Twilight Sparkle and Princess Luna, I have to admit I am rather anxious about the pregnancy. I know next to nothing about dragon physiology and patterns of inheritance, save for what Trixie has taught us in her own little book on dragons. If it would not be too much of a bother, do you think you could write back with some helpful tips on what to do during a pregnancy?”

This part was true, as much as it could be, in fact. Chrysalis was terribly anxious to be a mother, and she truly didn’t know what she was going to do. In fact, she was more worried about what her offspring- no, foal, would look like. Her baby would not be called a creature or a thing: it would be her and Spike’s foal, and any who called it something else would be met with severe pain.

On another note, she had no idea what to expect of the birthing process, as her mother had oh-so-fortunately never told her about that particular aspect of the queen caste. She was terrified her foal would come out a monster: a changeling and a dragon had never bred before, according the ancient lore of her people. Add to the fact that the queen or king of the changeling race was always a little different in physiology from the rest of the hive, and there was no telling what her foal would look like.

“Also, as a close friend of Spike’s I was hoping you would be able to tell me more about where he grew up and his life before we met, Twilight. I do so hope you don’t mind me calling you Twilight: we’re practically sisters now, through my marriage. I do want to get to know you better as well. I have heard you are incredibly talented at magic, and I was hoping you could maybe teach me some spells when I get back home?”

She paused again, her magic vaporizing a small insect crawling up her leg: she didn’t have time to just send it flying off. “Princess Luna, I have always been fascinated with the lore behind stars. Whether it was fortune-telling, prophesying or merely telling stores, I have always loved looking at the night sky. I never got to stargaze much at my old home, and I have heard the view is spectacular from where Spike is from. When we meet in pony, do you think you could show me just what I’ve been missing out on?”

Sincerely, Meia Dragul.” She handed the letter to Spike, who had been patiently waiting for her to finish. By now, they were all much more tired than they had been when they started writing the letters: a common side effect of calming down when night approached.

With a small burst of flame, Spike sent the letters into the magical transporting dimension through which all magically transported items went through. He watched as the smoke shot out through the entrance to the hut and out of sight: it would be in Equestria very soon. After learning of the time zones, Spike knew it would well be daytime in Equestria still, but the fact that he wouldn’t be able to talk with his friends and family immediately did not concern him. He needed his sleep: that much was evident,

“Goodnight everypony,” he said softly, climbing into bed next to Asalah. Quietly, he whispered “I love you” to his wives. They each responded in kind, their soft voices like music to his ears. As Asalah snuggled up next to him, her soft body matching the contours of his own, Spike closed his eyes and fell asleep, drifting off into a peaceful dreamland.

Soon enough, his wives were asleep as well, their soft snores filling the hut. Outside, the rest of the camp was silent as the night closed in on Eastern Africa. The stars shone, the crickets sang, and the softest of breezes caressed the tired bodies of all gathered there. It was a good, silent night: all was calm.

Author's Notes:

Oh, to be in Kenya would likely be one of Flutterhsy's wet dreams...

Not that I know anything about that, of course... (^_^)

Also, sorry I didn't update as quickly as I normally do. Tons of college work and I was bitten- nay, INFECTED- by the writing bug and have quite a few more stories in development. Oh, what hath Fimfiction wrought? As such, my updates may no longer be within the same week: sorry to all those who check their favorites list daily.

Compared to Zecora's, Kalahari's rhyming was fun!