//------------------------------// // The Soldier Who... // Story: The Mare With No Story And Other Promising Tales // by James Washburn //------------------------------// The Soldier Who... Once, there was an Equestrian soldier, walking back from the war. Back in the day, you were conscripted at 18 and held in service for twenty years, and if you survived, you were given your back pay and sent on your way. In this case, her back-pay consisted of three old, dry biscuits. How odd, the whole time she’d been in the army, she’d been fed, clothed and housed (not always in fabulous style, but nonetheless...), yet now she was a free mare, she had next to nothing. Well, she pondered on that as she strolled down the long winding way back home. And home was a long, long way away, for the war had brought her out here to the ends of the earth, where you could see it curve all the way down into darkness. She trotted on, through a desolate land, where the sky hung dark overhead and the trees grew crooked. Mud sucked at her boots and rain fell all about. She was still making her way home, when she saw a beggar by the side of the road, dressed in rags and propped up with two crutches. “Alms,” he cried, pitifully, “alms for an old soldier who’s lost his forelegs!” And the soldier mare’s heart was moved by this. So she went over to him, and passed him one of her pieces of bread. “Here, brother. You need this more than me.” “Bless you, ma’am,” he said, bowing his head. “Doubtless you’ll be rewarded.” The mare nodded politely and set off, through the dark country where rocks stuck out white as bones on the blackened hills. Past the idle quarry and over a muddy stream, she soon met another beggar, dressed as the first, with bandages over his eyes. “Alms,” he cried out, “alms for an old soldier who’s lost his his eyes!” Again, the soldier mare couldn’t help but remember that, for a bit of luck, she’d be in the same position. So, maybe a little more reluctantly, she passed him a piece of bread. “Here, brother. I still have one left. You need this more than me.” “Bless you, ma’am,” said the beggar. “Doubtless you’ll be rewarded.” The mare nodded politely again, and went on her way. Over hill and down dale she went, onwards through the Black Country. Past the ruins of an inn, past a windmill where the wheels ground for no one’s benefit. And, it wasn’t long, before she came upon another beggar, with no legs, bandages over his eyes, and only stumps where his ears were. He wore a deep, dark hood. He didn’t ask for alms, though, and she thought of passing him by, but then she remembered. There, but for a little luck, went her. So she went over to him, and passed him her final piece of bread. “Here, brother,” she said, putting it into his mouth, for he had no way to eat it himself. “You need it more than I do.” “Fank oo,” he said, around the bread. “Naow, wob can I bo for ‘oo?” “Pardon?” The beggar chomped down on the bread and swallowed. He tossed his head, and his hood came down, revealing a unicorn’s horn. “I said, what can I do for you?” The soldier mare raised an eyebrow. A futile gesture, since the other pony was blind. “I think you’re the one who needs help here.” “I might be poor, but that doesn’t mean I can’t be grateful. You’re the soldier who handed out her bread to others when it was all she had. Yours is a rare breed of kindness indeed, and that deserves rewarding. Now, what would you like?” The mare thought for a moment. “A pack of cards would be nice,” she said. “Something to pass the time when the time comes to rest.” “Ah, a pack of cards? Well, have I got a pack of cards for you!” said the beggar. And with that, he levitated one out of a fold in his rags. “Take this pack. If you play cards with this pack, you’re guaranteed to win. And take this, too,” by which he produced a sack, “because if there’s anything that needs catching, just open up the bag and tell it to get in, and it'll do just that.” The mare thanked him, putting the cards in her jacket pocket and slinging the sack over her shoulder. On she went, down the muddy road which followed a muddy river along a dim and dingy valley floor. She hadn’t gone very far at all, mind you, when she saw three chickens rush across the path, and into the tall reeds beside the river. They were followed shortly by a yellow pegasus. “Oh my goodness!” she said, breathlessly. “Help me, please! My chickens have escaped, and they’re sure to come to harm out here.” “Don’t worry about it,” said the soldier, with a smile. “Watch this.” She cleared her throat and opened the bag. “Hey! You chickens! Get into this here bag!” And like that, three chickens rushed backwards out of the undergrowth and into the bag. The soldier passed the sack to the pegasus. “There, no harm done.” “Oh thank you ever so much,” said the pegasus (still breathless). “Whatever can I do to repay this kindness?” The soldier thought for a moment. “I could do with somewhere to stay the night. If it’s not too much trouble, could I impose upon you?” “But of course!” said the pegasus. “We don’t get many visitors in our neck of the woods.” So she led the soldier down the path to a small, sod-roofed cottage on the edge of a ragged, tumbledown town. All the houses crowded around one big, handsome house, carved from a large tree, but the treehouse itself looked abandoned. The pegasus showed the soldier in, showed her the bed (well, a sofa, but it didn’t pay to be picky), gave her some stew, and (once the chikens had been returned to the yard) they shared a bottle of apple wine. After all, as the pegasus said, when was she next going to have an occasion to open it? So they had a chat, had a drink, and as the evening went on, the soldier noticed something out of the window. “Say, whose house is that?” she said, gesturing to the big handsome treehouse. “That? Oh...” the pegasus cast her eyes low. “That used to the library, but it’s been taken over.” “Taken over?” said the soldier, puzzled. “Who’d want to take over a library?” “It’s, um, chnglngs...” “Pardon?” “It’s changelings,” she said, glancing behind herself nervously. "Pardon?" said the soldier, leaning in, one ear cocked. "It's changelings, okay!" said the pegasus, ducking down and hiding behind her hooves. The soldier raised an eyebow. “What on earth are changelings doing in a library?” “Oh they’re up there from sunset til sunrise, drinking, fighting, playing cards and all other kinds of mischief," said the pegasus, miserably. “Well!” said the soldier, standing up abruptly. “We can’t be having with that! Where is the librarian?” So the pegasus led the soldier to the inn, where the librarian was drowning her sorrows. “It’s terrible!” she said, weeping into her foaming mug of water. “The changelings are destroying everything in there! All my books, all my checklists! “ “Don’t worry,” said the soldier, patting her on the back reassuringly. “I’ll spend the night there and make sure they stay out this time.” There was a gasp. “Are you sure?” said the librarian. “Nopony who’s spent the night has ever been seen again. Well, never seen again whole.” This was true enough. Many was the time they’d had to sweep up the little bones, all cracked for marrow. “Don’t worry about it,” said the soldier, laughing. “I’m a soldier of Equestria, I served for twenty years and I’m still here. Water won’t drown me and fire won’t burn me. What do I have to fear? Besides, it’ll save her,” she gestured back at the pegasus, “the trouble of keeping me for the night.” Well, if she was certain, there was no one in this town who was going to stop her. So she set out for the treehouse. The sun was just setting as she stepped inside. There was a wide table in the middle, and the walls were covered with shelves. The soldier settled in at the table, sack beside her, shuffling the cards idly. No sooner had the sun gone down, though, than there was a scratching and a scrabbling under the floorboards. Then, changelings burst up through the floorboards, whooping, shouting and caterwauling for all they were worth. Some played screeching fiddles, others ear-piercing flutes, others beat drums with enough bass to shatter glass. They were all hideous, gribbly things, each one more hideous and gribbly than the last. They quickly surrounded the soldier, hissing and sneering at her. The soldier turned slowly and met their blue, unblinking stares. “What you doin’ ‘ere?” said a little scrawny one. “Just resting the night,” the soldier replied, calmly. “Restin'? There’ll be no restin' on my watch!” said a big, burly one. “You’ll stay up with us, makin’ noise, breakin’ stuff an’ playin’ cards!” “Playing... cards?” said the soldier, with a smile. “By all means. I'd love to play you at cards. On one condition.” “Yeah?” “We use my deck.” So they did. The changelings took the pack, shuffled it and dealt it out. One of them had to lend the soldier some spare change so she could play, but that didn’t matter. The soldier won every hand. Now, the changelings were cunning, Celestia's beard they were cunning. They could think their way out of a corkscrew without bending a knee, but even they were stumped. Pretty soon, the soldier had won a sizeable amount of money. The changelings muttered amongst themselves. An old wizened one stepped forward. “You’re clearly a good one for cards,” he said, with a sneer. “How’s about we up the ante?” “How high?” asked the soldier. “We’ve got sixty bushels of silver and forty of gold left, and we’ll bet it all against you.” The soldier smirked. “Alright then, let’s see it.” Ten changelings rushed out and returned six times, each with a bushel of silver. Then they went out four more times and returned with the gold. So the soldier dealt again. The changelings schemed, they connived, they cheated (oh how they cheated!) but no matter how they played, the result was always the same. She won the silver, then he won the gold, along with the rest of the money she’d taken. The changelings shrugged. It was a good game and he’d won his cash fairly. Which wasn’t to say they accepted this fact. The eldest changeling eyed the soldier, apparently lost in thought. “Hm. Well played, soldier.” “Thank you.” “You’re a demon at cards, that I can’t deny.” “So kind of you to say so.” “You’ve won every penny we have.” “That I have.” “That you have indeed,” said the eldest, nodding wisely. He turned to the other changelings. “Right lads, tear her limb from limb.” The changelings leaped into the air, teeth bared, hooves becoming claws, all poised to rip the soldier to shreds “Wait!" she said, holding up the sack. "Before you kill me, tell me one thing! What do you call this?” The eldest shouldered his way forward. “It looks like a sack.” “Does it now?” said the soldier, smiling. “Well, you’d better get in it, then!” And with that, every single horrible, gribbly changeling was sucked up into that bag, screeching and complaining all the way. The soldier made sure to tie it up tight and leave a heavy book on it. And with that, she retired to the bedroom, and slept soundly. The next morning, the librarian and her assistant went in to clean up whatever was left of the soldier, only to find her calmly shuffling her cards, hooves up on the big reading table. Their jaws dropped in unison. All the librarian could manage was, “Bu.. but... but how?” The soldier smiled to herself. “I tell you what, I wish everyone paid their gambling debts like those changelings did.” She gestured to the piles of silver and gold. That made the librarian’s jaw drop further. “But that’s not important right now,” said the soldier, getting up suddenly. “What’s important now is iron. Get me a blacksmith.” With money like that knocking around, you learn not to question it. The librarian rushed off and soon enough, the blacksmith arrived, dragging an anvil and the heaviest hammer anypony had ever seen. The soldier laid the sack out on the anvil. “How good a blacksmith are you?” she said to him. “Pr’tty good.” “Good enough to forge cloth?” The blacksmith met the soldier’s eyes levelly. “E-yup.” The soldier grinned. “Prove it, then.” The smith picked up his hammer and started to beat the sack. Immediately, the changelings start to squeak and squeal and shout. “We’re innocent!” they cried out. “The soldier tricked us into this sack!” But the blacksmith paid them no heed, and beat away. Inside the sack, the changelings were battered black and blue. See, the one thing changelings hate more than losing is iron. Between the hammer and the anvil, something snapped. “No! Please! Stop!” The blacksmith frowned and gave the bag another thump. “We... we promise! If you stop beating us, we’ll leave and never come back! No changeling will come near this town, from now until the end of time! Just stop beating us!” The blacksmith looked at the soldier, who nodded. The blacksmith untied the sack, and no sooner was it loose, than every changeling in there, all beaten bruised and bloody, flew out. But just as they did, the soldier snatched at the old one, hooking his leg with a horseshoe. “Except you,” she said. “I want your word in promise.” “My word?” he said, writhing at the touch of iron. “You should never trust the word of a changeling.” “Very well, I’ll get it in writing, then.” And with that, she cut his leg, letting the green-blue blood flow. She dipped a quill into the wound and gave it to the changeling. “Write that you’ll serve me faithfully when and if I demand you to.” “This is blackmail!” “Do you want the sack again?” The changeling had never written so fast in his life. And when he’d finished, the soldier took the agreement and unhooked the changeling’s leg, and he flew off to join his compatriots. The changelings fled the town and scuttled back to their hive. Once there, they told everyling who’d listen about their terrible trial, and soon enough, changelings big and small were all on the look-out. Sentries were posted, guards were tripled, compassionate leave was cancelled. Security was tightened, with the express intention of ensuring that, under no circumstances could the soldier with the sack get in. So the librarian was forever in the soldier’s debt. She let her stay in the library by way of thanks. And of course, with all the money she’d won, she was able to live well. Better than well, she could live like a king. Which is exactly what she did. She settled down in the town, living comfortably for a time. Then, when she got bored of being comfortable, she got married. And then, because her life wasn’t quite exciting enough, even being married, she had a child. She had a son, a beautiful colt. And all that was left to do was to watch him grow up into a stallion. Well, no, actually. Because the colt fell sick. Seriously sick. The kind of sick no one could figure out. The librarian checked every book she owned for a cure, or even a diagnosis, but came up blank. Even the soldier’s fantastic wealth couldn’t buy a doctor to come even close. Things were serious. When things get serious, they often get desperate. So the soldier dug out the agreement that old changeling had scribbled down. “Wherever you are,” she said, “you are needed here.” And like that, in a flash of smoke and a whiff of burnt tin and almonds, the old changeling was there. “Oh, it’s you,” he said, frowning. “What do you want?” “They say changelings walk the line between what’s real and what’s not. They say you know all the secrets of death,” she said, because flattery always helps to grease the wheels. “I need you to find out what is wrong with my son.” The changeling pulled a face like a plumber on a sinking ship. “I'm no doctor, I’m afraid, but I'll see what I can do.” The changeling picked up a glass of water from the bedside table and set it on the little colt’s forehead. “Look in there,” he said, “and tell me what you see.” The soldier peered into the glass, and her blood ran cold. “I see death," she said, her voice wobbling. “Oh? Do you now?” “Yes, an old withered biddy.” “Where is she?” “At the foot of my son’s bed.” “Oh, well then,” said the changeling, and he tipped the glass of water over the child’s head. “What are you-” the soldier started to say, but was cut off by her son leaping out of bed and embracing her tight. “She was standing at the foot of your son’s bed, so he’d surely recover” the changeling explained. “But if she’d been standing at the head of your son’s bed... well, that would be fate.” The soldier eyed the old changeling. “If you show me how to do that, then I’ll call it quits.” The changeling smiled. “Very well. The trick isn’t the glass, it’s the water. It has to be just so...” So it was that the changeling was given the agreement and was freed, and the soldier learned how to predict death. And just like that, she put half the doctors in the district out of work. Because if you wanted to know if someone would recover, you asked for the soldier who had chased the changelings out of the library. The soldier who could predict death. And she’d go to your house with nothing but a glass of water, and if she saw death at the bottom of your bed, she’d throw the water over you because, of course, you were going to recover. But if she saw death at the head of your bed... well, that was fate. All was well for a time. The soldier charged enough to stay in food and shelter for her and her family, but not so much no one could afford her. All was well until the lord called for her. For you see, the lord was not reasonable. He got what he wanted, and damn the consequences. So when he called for the soldier, he was fully expecting nothing more than a face full of water and then he’d be up and about. He had not expected to be told that, actually, death was at the head of his bed. “What?” he blustered. “Impossible! I can’t die!” The soldier shrugged. “That’s fate, I’m afraid.” “Damn fate! I can’t die! I won’t die!” “An admirable attitude,” said the soldier, “but you can’t just put death off like that.” “I got out of taxes, I can get out of this,” said the lord, grinning desperately. “And do you know why? Because you’re going in my place.” “Why would I do that, my lord?” “Because although I may be dying, I’m not dying so quickly I can’t order your execution.” And he could, mind. In those days when roads weren’t what they are today, news was slow to spread. The lord could have this pony executed and the royal sisters wouldn’t find out for years. So what could the soldier do? She couldn’t just be executed. Then what would she do? What would her family do? So she pleaded with death. “Oh death, please don't take him.” "Not as simple as that, pet," said death, in a voice like closing curtains. "You're asking a lot, and you'd better provide something from your end." The soldier panicked. "Take me instead then! Take me! A life for a life!" She looked back in the glass, and sure enough death had shifted from the head of the lord’s bed to the foot. She splashed the water on the lord, and no sooner had she done so, than death came for her. All her limbs went limp, and she could barely stand. “Please, death!” she cried out. “Give me an hour! No more! Enough time to say goodbye to my husband and child!” Death rolled her eyes. “Hurry up, then. Get busy livin' or get busy dyin'. One or t’other.” So the soldier was brought back to her house and put in bed. She had to be helped every step of the way, as she got weaker and weaker with every passing minute. She bid farewell to her husband and son, and laid her head back on the pillow. She felt death looming over her. “Well, if you’re quite finished,” said death, lifting her scythe. “One last thing,” said the soldier. With the last of her strength, she pulled a sack from under her pillow. “Do you know what this is?” “It’s a sack," said death, puzzled. “Well then, you’d better get in it!” And with a rush of air and a woosh of noise, death was sucked mercilessly into the sack. Quick as she could, the soldier tied up the sack as tight as she could. Suddenly, the soldier felt much better. She felt like going for a walk. So she did. She strolled out into the middle of the Everfree Forest and hung the sack from the highest branch of the tallest tree. When she returned to the village, however, she found that death had simply ceased. A pony sentenced to execution stood up from the block with his head still attached. A foal run down by a cart simply got up and walked on. Soldiers in the middle of battle struck at each other, but no one died. Because, after all, death was in a sack on the highest branch of the tallest tree in the middle Everfree Forest. Things went on like this for a while. No one lived in fear of death, which brought out the best in some and the worst in others, but by and large, things were good. Until one day. The soldier was sitting on her front porch, admiring the sunset, when an old, wizened stallion stumped up the path towards her. “Hullo,” she said, brightly. “Can I help you with anything?” “You can, as a matter of fact,” he said, viciously. “You’ve done a stupid and terrible thing, and it’s all the more terrible because you don’t see how stupid it is!” “Excuse me?” “I am an old pony, as you can see,” he went on, in a creaking tone of voice. “I had maybe an hour left to go. I had made my peace with the world, with my family. I was ready to go and see that better place ponies always go to...” His eyes misted up, and he stared longingly into the middle distance. “Until you showed up,” he said, glaring back at the soldier. “Until the soldier who put death in a sack showed up. The soldier who denied me my peace and left me to stump around in this crippled, creaking old body! And not just me! Think, how many ponies were ready to go? How many ponies have been left to remain old forever? Ponies you robbed of their peace.” He tutted and shook his head. “What should I do then?” said the soldier, a tad desperately. “Release death,” he said, his eyes locked to hers. “And let my life reach a natural end. Let all lives reach natural ends.” Well, what was the soldier to do? She did as she had to. She went deep into the Everfree Forest, found the tallest tree and shimmied up to the highest branch. There still hung the sack. She took it down and took it home. With a heavy heart (for she knew she would be one of the first to go), she bid farewell to her husband, and her son (who had grown into a fine young stallion in this time). “Alright then, death,” she said. “Make an end of it.” And with that, she opened the sack. The very moment she did, though, Death leaped out and rushed towards the window. “Where are you going?” cried the soldier. “As far away as I can get!" she replied, as she disappeared out of the window. "I'm not going anywhere near you and your sack again, that's for sure!” The soldier tried to chase after her, you can't catch up to death any more than you can outrun her. She stood for a moment, watching the old biddy disappear off into the distance. Well, what was she to do? She couldn't linger, now that everyone was dying again. It wouldn't be proper. She had to seek death by another means. So she decided to seek the changelings, who never play by the rules, even the rules of life and death. Surely, she thought, they would want to tear her apart after she stole their gold and imprisoned them. She set out to find them, bidding farewell to everypony she knew, certain that at the end of the journey, lay certain death. She walked for a week, she walked for a month, she walked for a year, searching everywhere for the changeling hive. Eventually, she reached the tall crooked spire of the great hive. She trotted up to the doors and knocked. “Excuse me,” she said, as politely as you please. “Can you tear me limb from limb and rend the flesh from my bones? Can you break the rules and kill me without death?” A window opened and a changeling leaned out. “Are you asking for it?” “That I am.” “You want to be torn asunder by the teeth of a thousand furious changelings?” “Yes, I do.” “You want us to use your skull for a cup, your skin for a drum and your teeth for harp-pins?” “Very much so.” “Well, I daresay we could...” The changeling was just about to open the door, when he saw the soldier was carrying something. “Wait a mo', what’s that?” “This?” she said, holding up the offending object. “It’s just a sack.” The changeling screeched and slammed the door shut. “Come on, it’s me!” the soldier shouted. “The soldier who humiliated you at cards!” There was the sound of slamming bolts inside the hive. “The soldier who held you captive against your will!” The click of a mighty key. “The soldier who coerced one of you to teach me how to predict death!” The scraping of a table being dragged in front of the door. “Surely you want me dead!” But there was no response from the hive. The soldier sighed. The changelings wouldn’t take her, and neither would death. So there was only one option left. To cut out the middle mare, and seek out the better place ponies went to when they died. Now, she had to search for it by hoof, so she walked. She walked for months, she walked for years, up hill and down dale, east of the sun and west of the moon, until finally, she found it. A pair of wrought iron gates at the top of a mountain. A pegasus with a snow white coat stood guard. “Please, can I come in?” she said. The pegasus looked down his nose at her. “When did you die?” The soldier opened and shut her mouth as she searched for the right answer. “I... I haven’t died. Death wouldn’t take me, and the changelings wouldn’t break the rules and kill me, so I came here on foot.” “No date, no entry,” said the pegasus, sternly. “B-but I want to go in!” “We can’t just let anyone in here,” the pegasus went on. “Everyone can only come at their due time.” The soldier slumped by the side of the path, dejected. To have come so far, to be so close, yet still out of reach. And just as she was thinking this, she saw a familiar figure creaking up the path to the gates. The yellow pegasus. She hailed her as she passed. “Oh! It’s you,” said the pegasus, smiling faintly. “I remember you. You’re the soldier who saved my chickens. I didn’t think I’d see you here.” “Me neither,” said the soldier. "I had to walk all the way here, and now they won't let me in..." She sighed. Then, she had an idea. She handed the pegasus the sack. “Tell me to get in that sack,” she said, “and when you’re inside, tell me to get out.” “What are you trying...?” “Just do it, please? I’ll be in your debt.” So the pegasus did just that. She told the soldier to get into the sack, and the soldier was powerless not to. The pegasus walked up to the gates, told the guard her date of death, and was admitted inside. In the sack, the soldier waited to be told to get out. She waited, and waited, and waited, but the pegasus never told her to. So overcome was she with the wonder of the place, this better place all ponies went to, that the pegasus completely forgot about the sack. She let it slide off her back and disappear through the clouds. The sack plummeted down, back into Equestria, where it landed in a hawthorn bush. The seams snagged, and it tore open. The soldier clambered out, choking back tears. She cast her eyes up, but the hole in the clouds had closed, hiding the better place from view. Without anywhere else to go, she set out down the road again, to wander this way and that, until death came, or she walked off the edge of the world. So if you ever meet a soldier, wandering the highways and byways of Equestria, whatever you do, don’t play cards with her. Because she just might be the soldier who...