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The Life and Times of an Honest Pony
Tonight, I sip at my flask of hot cocoa, rub my freezing hooves, and tighten the scarf around my neck, just like every other night.
It’s the forty-seventh day. Four-seven, tee hay-ch, written in those littler words called something-script. Subscript. That’s probably it, yeah. It’s the seventieth day we’ve started work, and we’re finally above ground level. We had to take out the foundations in order to fix up the ground underneath, so that we could then lay in a new set of foundations, and that was long work all right. The Canterlotians really don’t skimp on stability when it comes to the nobles’ buildings, I can tell ya. The steel beams which kept the ground firm were a hundred feet in deep. Crazy innit? A hundred feet! We had to dig and dig, loosen up all the soil, and then have the unicorn squads do the heavy lifting, take the beams out in one glowy magical pull. Unicorns doing heavy lifting! Goes to show that anything goes in the New Era, just like the radios are saying.
Anyways, we managed to pull out the old, twisted foundations, put in new ones - the fancy kind with the beams covered in runes so that we don’t have to strike ‘em in as deep, because it’s magic. And then we started the scaffolding, and the first bits of flooring, and now it’s the forty-seventh day, bordering on forty-eighth.
I mean, from now on, there’s no more digging. It’ll just be a simple matter of carrying and laying and mixing and setting, and even the thinking part of that’s all the forepony’s job. We just have to do what he tells us to do. That’s fine.
You know, you’d think that the city folk would be complaining, what with us a-rattlin’, a-banging, generally being the loud sort of productive in the middle of the night, but they ain’t. Probably because the ones who made it out aren’t around any more, and the ones who dinna made it out aren’t around any more neither.
Maybe I shouldn’t say that out loud. Although it has been already forty-seven days since the big rampage, and all.
A month and some. King Crownmaker from the history books had a month-long mourning when he died, but I doubt there was any kings when the buildings collapsed.
Construction’s going on all around our area, it isn’t just us. I’ve never seen anything quite like it. Most I ever saw was when I was drafted to go work on them low-cost housing, down in South Haymeande, and that was pretty amazing, like, a couple hundred units and we worked on ‘em twenty at a time, where a chunk of the wild forest used to be. The Haymeande villagers told us you couldn’t see anything on account of the dust. But this is something different. This is like... a quarter, yeah, a whole quarter of Canterlot being rebuilt from rubble. Really something different all right.
Ma tells me I oughtta be more poetic. It’s the only way a rough cut like me could get grandkids for her, she says. Forget the grandkids, this is worth mentioning on its own.
Like...
Think a construction site, right. Dead soil, the clay kind, all dry and crumbly because of all the years of being sat under by buildings. You’ve got your forepony shouting at everypony. You’ve got your big fences with all the warning signs and pictures of safety equipment. You’ve got all the dust everywhere, ponies walking in dust, ponies trailing dust as they walk, all that. There’s cement-mixers and wagons and machinery carrying things and beams and cans and canisters, and all that stuff which goes into a building, everywhere, all over the grounds. And you’ve got the building itself, right, just a scaffolding frame, nowhere near even half the height of the original building, made of poles and all covered with the soft green mesh. And you’ve got ponies climbing it and being everywhere. And you’d wonder sometimes just how the heck could we ever get it back up, and then you remember that it just does. That we’re the ones who get it back up, because it’s our job.
And you’ve got this construction site, and there’s another one beside it, and another one around that, and all over. It just stretches on and on, all across northern Canterlot. You can actually see more sky because there’s no more skyscrapers in the way. That’s what some ponies are saying, at least. I wouldn’t know. I’ve always been able to see the sky fine. I do know that you can’t walk well, though, because all the skyscrapers are blocking your way. What’s left of them, I mean. Well, at least, I would mean, except we’ve cleared that away already, for the most part. The debris is somewhere, wherever it is that debris is thrown.
And everypony’s being noisy, and loud, and there’s metal clanging and shouting and hitting, but there’s a strange calm about it all. Not in the ears, you know, but somewhere... deeper. In the watery cocoa, in my cold hooves, and around my scarf.
I dunno. It’s not that I don’t like the calm or anything, it’s just weird. In a nice kind of way. I do like doing the night shifts. Always liked the nights more. Guess I should have told her that.
It’s the two-hundred-and-first day. A lotta ponies ain’t happy. I’m not sure if I’m one of them.
See, the government, who’re the ones hiring us to rebuild Canterlot, want to hire griffons and goats too. Griffons are good builders, on account of having both strength and wings, and goats are good at handling heights, which is kinda where we are around now. That pissed off the union, and so they’re locked in, mmm, heated debate. Because while the government’s, y’know, the government, we’re the ones who’re actually doing the work, so we should get to have a say. And, apparently, what a lot of “we” are saying is that we don’t want meat-eaters and low-pay bumpkins to come in and steal our jobs. Well, “we” are saying that, though I don’t mind them. I mean, griffons look at you funny, and goats look at you even more funny, but they never did me any harm, and if there’s too much work to be done, then I don’t see how they could steal our jobs, since we’ve still got ours and there’s still more to spare.
I mean, yeah, it’s been two hundred and one days, which is, um, seven months less a bit. Even with the unicorns we’re behind schedule by five weeks, and the forepony thinks we’ll be behind by even more if this carries on. This, of course, being the stupid weather. It’s not even pretty weather. It’s just dark.
It’s been raining on-and-off for the past three weeks. Sometimes it’s a drizzle, sometimes it’s a storm, but it all comes down to clouds ain’t getting kicked. It’s all because the pegasi in charge aren’t doing their job. They’re slacking off. Forepony tells me so. Their tower got destroyed, so they were relocated to a less nice part of town, and their wages were cut temporarily to make funding for the reconstruction. And apparently this made the pegasi boss official real upset, so he’s being a pain in the flank by being sloppy. I mean, he’s throwing a fit because he doesn’t have a nice office no more, and we’re the ones who get caught in the rain and mud! If anything, the government should go give his job to the griffons. Then we could actually make cement with the proper amounts of water, and actually climb the scaffolding without worrying about slipping, and, you know, actually do work.
But the forepony tells me that’s not gonna happen, because the boss official is the nephew of the Speaker in Parliament. He’s important, and nopony wants to get in his way, so he gets away with it. And because the government needs to look like it’s doing something, it’s gone and proposed that it hires griffons and goats. And Princess Celestia’s, well, not around, so that’s just that, bless her soul.
We’re doing the best we can as is. We really are. It’s real hard work, and I can’t remember what it’s like to not feel sore all over, or to not have mud in the nicks of your hooves. But the government is making it sound like we’re not good enough. That’s not right. Ma always told me to do my best in everything, and I did. I am.
I’m thinking that maybe I am one of the unhappy ponies, and the more I think about it, the more unhappy I am. Now I’m not sure whether I want to be unhappy.
It’s been a week since I’ve come here. Canterlot sure is... well, it’s not what I was expecting at all. Ma always said Canterlot’s a mess, ‘s why she never left Trottingham, and, hey, Ma was right.
The forepony here’s really different from Mr Roe. Good old Mr Roe. He’s a younger pony who’s still got black hairs in his mane, and he wears this custom safety vest with pockets especially for holding pens. He’s got a really sharp look to him, like the old headmaster, lookin’ to see if you really did steal that toffee, or hit that filly because she called you a ne’er-do-well. Which she did, but he never stared at her, but that dinna matter now. Point is that the new forepony kinda scares me, so I have to work real hard to do everything right. I don’t wanna find out what happens if I don’t.
The sleeping area’s more or less the same. It’s a shelter and we sleep on mattresses in rows. No fancy electricity, because the thing that makes it got destroyed. And of course everything smells of mud and sweat, even though it’s just been a week. Still, I’m not complaining. We each have our own oil lamp, which is plenty generous, and there’s quite a bit of wiggle room between mattresses. Wood that makes the floor’s good and solid, too, doesn’t sound like the kind that gets damp easy. That’s good. I mean, we’ll be living in here until the construction gets done, and it looks like it ain’t gonna get done until a long, long time.
It’s... it’s just insane, what happened here. We heard the news, and thought that was bad, and then came the newspapers with the pictures, and we thought that was more bad, but seeing it with your own eyes...
Who’d have thought it? Princess Luna, going bad and calling herself Nightmare Moon?
The radio didn’t do it justice. “Long-fought battle”, they said. Well, “long-fought battle” my flank. “Long-fought battle” don’t show you just how much rubble there is. It’s all just rubble. Everything, all the buildings, the houses, the roads, all crumbled and broke. And there’s ponies underneath. Hundreds of them, they’re saying. Maybe even a thousand. It makes me sick just thinking about it...
That’s all we’ve been doing, and that’s all we’ll be doing, for the next couple of weeks. Just clearing rubble. The top layer’s just dusty. It’s the bottom bits, the ones that stink of death. There’s a lot more worms there. Beetles, too. You move a small stone and the light from your torch goes in, and out come like five of them, all scuttling, nasty black shiny things with pincers. And you look at them, and you think about them, where they’ve been and what they’re doing there, and... Oh Celestia...
The unicorns can’t use their magic anymore, or we’d be done a lot quicker. Just zap the rubble clean off. All the unicorns lost their magic, probably due to the fight. Sun against moon, day against night. There’s a lot of talk about nature leylines and balance, but it sails over my head. It’s not for me to bother about, because I’m not a unicorn. I’m paid to work. So that’s what I do. It’s good pay, too. Lucky it is, or I might’ve had half a mind to go home. I mean, geez, I’m not soft stuff, heck no, but being surrounded by all of it - the wreckage, the death, the look on everypony’s faces - that’s not natural. It’s just not good for the soul. Soul’s important.
But Ma’s getting old, and with the battle, everypony’s worrying whether the harvest will be okay or not, and then there’s Sissy who’s pregnant, and the foal’ll need a cot... Money’s never been this good, work’s never been so much. If I see this through, we’ll have enough for at least a while. I’m sure of it. And I have to do is just work. Ponies do it all the time.
Anyhow, I’m being put on the night shift. We’re working in a huge team of a hundred and fifty, half of us working in the day and the other half at night. Get things done faster, you see. I’d almost be happy for being in the night shift, if not for the whole thing with Princess Luna. I can’t help but feel bad, y’know. I enjoyed her nights. Didn’t make a difference, though, if she felt as jealous and unappreciated as she did. Maybe I should have told her, and then it might have mattered. I can’t help but think that. But then again I’m just a poor worker pony from Trottingham. I’m a rough cut. Ma says so all the time. I’d probably end up offending the Princess. Not that I’d know now.
It’s the two-hundred-and-thirty-third day. Two three three! A special number for a special day. Maybe special isn’t the word, though. It’s a good thing that’s happened, but I don’t feel very good about it.
Somepony nailed a folder of papers on the steps of the High Court. There were photographs, chits, receipts, letters, even a spell that contained recordings of the boss official doing “dealings” of the secret, bad kind. A bad attitude wasn’t his biggest problem; it was corruption, and every article in the folder was proof of it. The nail that did the job was eleven inches thick. Nopony makes nails like that! The longest we use is nine! Though I guess that’s not the point. The point is, the official was forced to resign, and the government’s been forced to punish him for his deeds. Radio’s been talking about it non-stop, though the signal’s been pretty bad and it’s hard to make things out of the crackle. Justice’s been done, and although I don’t really know all that much about it, you can still feel glad about it. It’s just one of those things.
What we weren’t expecting was that his replacement’s a griffon. One of the sons of a griffon elder. The radios talk about “diplomatic moves” and “intercontinental relations” and “trade”, but I’m kinda worried. I’m sure he’s a nice, um, fellow, and more responsible, and he’s already moving orders to get the sun back on us, which is good, but the union doesn’t seem to like it. Like, I’m not supposed to be working now, but I have to, because we get paid by the day and every day counts. We’re behind enough as is, and the forepony’s got bald patches trying to figure out how to make up for lost time. I don’t think he’d be happy if the few of us who’re still working stopped working. And Ma always told us to don’t do to others what you dinna want others to do to you. And besides, who ever thought of skipping work? Definitely not me. I need to work whenever I can. Construction workers don’t get much in the way of continued employment, and all, since there isn’t so much continued construction.
Some ponies are asking me why I’m not going on strike with them. I told them I needed the money. I think they get it. The truth is that not everypony wants to be on strike; I think it’s the leaders of the union who want it the most, and we never see them on site, so you have to wonder whether they know what they’re doing.
It’s the two-hundred-and-sixtieth day. The strike’s been holding up, even though the weather’s cleared up and we can actually make progress. Nopony is getting anywhere with negotiations. Eleven workers have packed up and gone home. If you’re going to do nothing, might as well do it at home, right?
I’ve been putting in my all every day, more than before, and it’s really doing a number on my back. But I gotta. We have to if we want to get the building done. Slowly but surely, we’re getting the floors done. There’s around twenty of us out of the team of a hundred and fifty - no, a hundred and thirty-four. Twenty’s a fine number. Twenty could get a house done in a couple of months real easy, though a house is a lot smaller and less complicated than an office building. We’re all day shift.
The taller it is, the more complicated it is. That makes sense, because there’s more floors and more weight to deal with, so the struts have to be more... just more, really. That’s all headwork and up to the architects, of course. We just do the fitting. And twenty’s a fine number to do fitting with. Just enough ponies to hold the supports and nail things, and keep everypony else safe and fastened.
Some of the ponies are kinda upset that there are twenty of us still working. Maybe they’re frustrated at the lack of progress, or at the union. The twenty of us are all border folk, living on the outskirts of the map, or so I’ve noticed. All honest, quiet lads with big families back home. Almost half from the chilly north, too. Not that the others aren’t honest, just that, well, maybe the others think different because they eat different. They think work’s worth skipping, and we don’t. There’s bound to be a reason for that that I’m not getting.
I mean, the griffon is obviously doing his job, right? What’s the problem then? If we can properly work now, that’s what we should do.
Mmm... Hearth’s Warming is coming up in a month or so. That’ll be a real day off. Wonder what I should do? Maybe I could do overtime. Canterlot pays more for its overtime workers, I’ve been told. It’d be a good way to keep warm at any rate. The pegasi are trying their best, but the lack of control over the past few months have messed up the order of things, or so they say.
Tonight, I sip at my flask of hot cocoa, rub my freezing hooves, and tighten the scarf around my neck, just like every other night.
It’s the three-hundredth day. Everything’s going as it should be. Yesterday, orders came from the union to start work again. Just that. And so we did. Truth be told, I think many of the ponies were happy to be able to work again. You could see it in the way they used to pace around, and poke at their food.
Despite our requests, the pegasi aren’t keeping the frost off the site. I see them trying, though, every so often, so I guess it’s just because they can’t. It’s real dangerous to work the scaffolding, now that we’re eight floors up. The wood gets damp in the Canterlotian winter, and the cold makes the wood brittle because of it. The railing’s also harder to hold, and the ropes are a lot more stiff. But we gotta keep working.
I’ve been put back on the night shift. It’s strange, having to get used to it again, sleeping in the day and all that, and getting my night vision back, but I’m not complaining. What I might be worried about is how this little bit of my back hurts whenever there’s a wind about, and sometimes it just locks... If I tell the forepony, though, I might get fired, on grounds of health. I really don’t want that. So I’d better keep quiet about it. I mean, yeah, I’ve been working all this time, and I’ve got a tidy sum on balance, but it could be more.
The view from here really is pretty. You can see the lamps lit up all over the sites, and you can see the shadows of the workers twitching and moving constantly. It’s like a construction festival. Noise is still noise, but there’s still a calm to it. And beyond that’s the sky - the vast, starry sky. I love that the most. It’s where I learned to count. Most ponies use paper, but I always wanted to know how many stars there were in the sky. So I tried to count them. And I kept on counting them. And before I knew it, I learned how to count up to... a lot. A really big number. I’m not sure what it is anymore. Pity.
In a couple more hours, it’ll be the new year. Come to think of it, I’ve never been away from home for the new year. Somehow I’d always be back home. Probably because nopony builds anything around the holiday season, until now that is. But now that I think about it, it’s my first new year’s alone. Well, not alone. There’s all the other workers, too.
The forepony’s shouting, but he sounds different. There’s a cart coming in and it’s filled with something. Whatever it is, a lot of ponies are getting interested in it really quickly.
Oh! The forepony’s telling us to come down. He’s got a treat for us, for the new year, and he says he’s giving us the rest of the night off. That’s really nice of him.
A lot of the ponies look happy. That’s the first time I’ve seen them like this. It’s really nice. And warm-feeling, too.
So now, I just have to put my cup down, grab the rope, and I’ll just strain my poor back for one last moment - don’t fail me, buddy - and we’ll ease down the building...
Tonight was amazing. You won’t believe it, but I gotta tell you anyways. I saw Princess Luna! The Princess Luna herself!
See, I was just walking in the woods, right. It’s the night shifter in me. You have to just do something with your hooves when the day gets cool. Anyways, what I was doing was walking in the woods, and then I come upon a clearing. Really wide, open, nice cool clearing, and it isn’t marsh, too, which is great for a place like Trottingham.
And in the clearing I saw the back of Princess Luna, just sitting there, staring at the full moon.
She must’ve heard me, even though I was trying to be quiet. That’s clumsy me for you. Ma always said I was a rough cut. She turned and looked at me. I couldn’t see her face, because her shadow was covering it, but there was... something about her. Her mane and tail were flowing even though there wasn’t any wind. The only thing I could really see from the distance was her eyes, and even then I couldn’t see that clearly.
She just faced me, and I faced her, and I didn’t know what to do.
I mean, Princess Luna, all the way in Trottingham! And I’m a rough cut, just some construction worker pony, and not even that - an unemployed construction worker pony.
I think I bowed. I must have. Manners, and all that, right, because Ma wouldn’t stand for me being disrespectful to the Princess. But anyhow, we didn’t say anything, and then, somehow, she was gone.
I mean, I know I’m pretty slow. I can do numbers, but that’s about it. But I finally thought of what to say to her, after she was gone, and it was real nice and simple too. It was simply “Thank you for the night”, because I like the nights. There’s a strange calm about them. A real warm, peaceful kind of calm, even in the cold seasons.
I guess I’ll have to tell her that if there’s a next time.
It’s the forty-seventh day. Four-seven, tee hay-ch, written in those littler words called something-script. Subscript. That’s probably it, yeah. It’s the seventieth day we’ve started work, and we’re finally above ground level. We had to take out the foundations in order to fix up the ground underneath, so that we could then lay in a new set of foundations, and that was long work all right. The Canterlotians really don’t skimp on stability when it comes to the nobles’ buildings, I can tell ya. The steel beams which kept the ground firm were a hundred feet in deep. Crazy innit? A hundred feet! We had to dig and dig, loosen up all the soil, and then have the unicorn squads do the heavy lifting, take the beams out in one glowy magical pull. Unicorns doing heavy lifting! Goes to show that anything goes in the New Era, just like the radios are saying.
Anyways, we managed to pull out the old, twisted foundations, put in new ones - the fancy kind with the beams covered in runes so that we don’t have to strike ‘em in as deep, because it’s magic. And then we started the scaffolding, and the first bits of flooring, and now it’s the forty-seventh day, bordering on forty-eighth.
I mean, from now on, there’s no more digging. It’ll just be a simple matter of carrying and laying and mixing and setting, and even the thinking part of that’s all the forepony’s job. We just have to do what he tells us to do. That’s fine.
You know, you’d think that the city folk would be complaining, what with us a-rattlin’, a-banging, generally being the loud sort of productive in the middle of the night, but they ain’t. Probably because the ones who made it out aren’t around any more, and the ones who dinna made it out aren’t around any more neither.
Maybe I shouldn’t say that out loud. Although it has been already forty-seven days since the big rampage, and all.
A month and some. King Crownmaker from the history books had a month-long mourning when he died, but I doubt there was any kings when the buildings collapsed.
Construction’s going on all around our area, it isn’t just us. I’ve never seen anything quite like it. Most I ever saw was when I was drafted to go work on them low-cost housing, down in South Haymeande, and that was pretty amazing, like, a couple hundred units and we worked on ‘em twenty at a time, where a chunk of the wild forest used to be. The Haymeande villagers told us you couldn’t see anything on account of the dust. But this is something different. This is like... a quarter, yeah, a whole quarter of Canterlot being rebuilt from rubble. Really something different all right.
Ma tells me I oughtta be more poetic. It’s the only way a rough cut like me could get grandkids for her, she says. Forget the grandkids, this is worth mentioning on its own.
Like...
Think a construction site, right. Dead soil, the clay kind, all dry and crumbly because of all the years of being sat under by buildings. You’ve got your forepony shouting at everypony. You’ve got your big fences with all the warning signs and pictures of safety equipment. You’ve got all the dust everywhere, ponies walking in dust, ponies trailing dust as they walk, all that. There’s cement-mixers and wagons and machinery carrying things and beams and cans and canisters, and all that stuff which goes into a building, everywhere, all over the grounds. And you’ve got the building itself, right, just a scaffolding frame, nowhere near even half the height of the original building, made of poles and all covered with the soft green mesh. And you’ve got ponies climbing it and being everywhere. And you’d wonder sometimes just how the heck could we ever get it back up, and then you remember that it just does. That we’re the ones who get it back up, because it’s our job.
And you’ve got this construction site, and there’s another one beside it, and another one around that, and all over. It just stretches on and on, all across northern Canterlot. You can actually see more sky because there’s no more skyscrapers in the way. That’s what some ponies are saying, at least. I wouldn’t know. I’ve always been able to see the sky fine. I do know that you can’t walk well, though, because all the skyscrapers are blocking your way. What’s left of them, I mean. Well, at least, I would mean, except we’ve cleared that away already, for the most part. The debris is somewhere, wherever it is that debris is thrown.
And everypony’s being noisy, and loud, and there’s metal clanging and shouting and hitting, but there’s a strange calm about it all. Not in the ears, you know, but somewhere... deeper. In the watery cocoa, in my cold hooves, and around my scarf.
I dunno. It’s not that I don’t like the calm or anything, it’s just weird. In a nice kind of way. I do like doing the night shifts. Always liked the nights more. Guess I should have told her that.
It’s the two-hundred-and-first day. A lotta ponies ain’t happy. I’m not sure if I’m one of them.
See, the government, who’re the ones hiring us to rebuild Canterlot, want to hire griffons and goats too. Griffons are good builders, on account of having both strength and wings, and goats are good at handling heights, which is kinda where we are around now. That pissed off the union, and so they’re locked in, mmm, heated debate. Because while the government’s, y’know, the government, we’re the ones who’re actually doing the work, so we should get to have a say. And, apparently, what a lot of “we” are saying is that we don’t want meat-eaters and low-pay bumpkins to come in and steal our jobs. Well, “we” are saying that, though I don’t mind them. I mean, griffons look at you funny, and goats look at you even more funny, but they never did me any harm, and if there’s too much work to be done, then I don’t see how they could steal our jobs, since we’ve still got ours and there’s still more to spare.
I mean, yeah, it’s been two hundred and one days, which is, um, seven months less a bit. Even with the unicorns we’re behind schedule by five weeks, and the forepony thinks we’ll be behind by even more if this carries on. This, of course, being the stupid weather. It’s not even pretty weather. It’s just dark.
It’s been raining on-and-off for the past three weeks. Sometimes it’s a drizzle, sometimes it’s a storm, but it all comes down to clouds ain’t getting kicked. It’s all because the pegasi in charge aren’t doing their job. They’re slacking off. Forepony tells me so. Their tower got destroyed, so they were relocated to a less nice part of town, and their wages were cut temporarily to make funding for the reconstruction. And apparently this made the pegasi boss official real upset, so he’s being a pain in the flank by being sloppy. I mean, he’s throwing a fit because he doesn’t have a nice office no more, and we’re the ones who get caught in the rain and mud! If anything, the government should go give his job to the griffons. Then we could actually make cement with the proper amounts of water, and actually climb the scaffolding without worrying about slipping, and, you know, actually do work.
But the forepony tells me that’s not gonna happen, because the boss official is the nephew of the Speaker in Parliament. He’s important, and nopony wants to get in his way, so he gets away with it. And because the government needs to look like it’s doing something, it’s gone and proposed that it hires griffons and goats. And Princess Celestia’s, well, not around, so that’s just that, bless her soul.
We’re doing the best we can as is. We really are. It’s real hard work, and I can’t remember what it’s like to not feel sore all over, or to not have mud in the nicks of your hooves. But the government is making it sound like we’re not good enough. That’s not right. Ma always told me to do my best in everything, and I did. I am.
I’m thinking that maybe I am one of the unhappy ponies, and the more I think about it, the more unhappy I am. Now I’m not sure whether I want to be unhappy.
It’s been a week since I’ve come here. Canterlot sure is... well, it’s not what I was expecting at all. Ma always said Canterlot’s a mess, ‘s why she never left Trottingham, and, hey, Ma was right.
The forepony here’s really different from Mr Roe. Good old Mr Roe. He’s a younger pony who’s still got black hairs in his mane, and he wears this custom safety vest with pockets especially for holding pens. He’s got a really sharp look to him, like the old headmaster, lookin’ to see if you really did steal that toffee, or hit that filly because she called you a ne’er-do-well. Which she did, but he never stared at her, but that dinna matter now. Point is that the new forepony kinda scares me, so I have to work real hard to do everything right. I don’t wanna find out what happens if I don’t.
The sleeping area’s more or less the same. It’s a shelter and we sleep on mattresses in rows. No fancy electricity, because the thing that makes it got destroyed. And of course everything smells of mud and sweat, even though it’s just been a week. Still, I’m not complaining. We each have our own oil lamp, which is plenty generous, and there’s quite a bit of wiggle room between mattresses. Wood that makes the floor’s good and solid, too, doesn’t sound like the kind that gets damp easy. That’s good. I mean, we’ll be living in here until the construction gets done, and it looks like it ain’t gonna get done until a long, long time.
It’s... it’s just insane, what happened here. We heard the news, and thought that was bad, and then came the newspapers with the pictures, and we thought that was more bad, but seeing it with your own eyes...
Who’d have thought it? Princess Luna, going bad and calling herself Nightmare Moon?
The radio didn’t do it justice. “Long-fought battle”, they said. Well, “long-fought battle” my flank. “Long-fought battle” don’t show you just how much rubble there is. It’s all just rubble. Everything, all the buildings, the houses, the roads, all crumbled and broke. And there’s ponies underneath. Hundreds of them, they’re saying. Maybe even a thousand. It makes me sick just thinking about it...
That’s all we’ve been doing, and that’s all we’ll be doing, for the next couple of weeks. Just clearing rubble. The top layer’s just dusty. It’s the bottom bits, the ones that stink of death. There’s a lot more worms there. Beetles, too. You move a small stone and the light from your torch goes in, and out come like five of them, all scuttling, nasty black shiny things with pincers. And you look at them, and you think about them, where they’ve been and what they’re doing there, and... Oh Celestia...
The unicorns can’t use their magic anymore, or we’d be done a lot quicker. Just zap the rubble clean off. All the unicorns lost their magic, probably due to the fight. Sun against moon, day against night. There’s a lot of talk about nature leylines and balance, but it sails over my head. It’s not for me to bother about, because I’m not a unicorn. I’m paid to work. So that’s what I do. It’s good pay, too. Lucky it is, or I might’ve had half a mind to go home. I mean, geez, I’m not soft stuff, heck no, but being surrounded by all of it - the wreckage, the death, the look on everypony’s faces - that’s not natural. It’s just not good for the soul. Soul’s important.
But Ma’s getting old, and with the battle, everypony’s worrying whether the harvest will be okay or not, and then there’s Sissy who’s pregnant, and the foal’ll need a cot... Money’s never been this good, work’s never been so much. If I see this through, we’ll have enough for at least a while. I’m sure of it. And I have to do is just work. Ponies do it all the time.
Anyhow, I’m being put on the night shift. We’re working in a huge team of a hundred and fifty, half of us working in the day and the other half at night. Get things done faster, you see. I’d almost be happy for being in the night shift, if not for the whole thing with Princess Luna. I can’t help but feel bad, y’know. I enjoyed her nights. Didn’t make a difference, though, if she felt as jealous and unappreciated as she did. Maybe I should have told her, and then it might have mattered. I can’t help but think that. But then again I’m just a poor worker pony from Trottingham. I’m a rough cut. Ma says so all the time. I’d probably end up offending the Princess. Not that I’d know now.
It’s the two-hundred-and-thirty-third day. Two three three! A special number for a special day. Maybe special isn’t the word, though. It’s a good thing that’s happened, but I don’t feel very good about it.
Somepony nailed a folder of papers on the steps of the High Court. There were photographs, chits, receipts, letters, even a spell that contained recordings of the boss official doing “dealings” of the secret, bad kind. A bad attitude wasn’t his biggest problem; it was corruption, and every article in the folder was proof of it. The nail that did the job was eleven inches thick. Nopony makes nails like that! The longest we use is nine! Though I guess that’s not the point. The point is, the official was forced to resign, and the government’s been forced to punish him for his deeds. Radio’s been talking about it non-stop, though the signal’s been pretty bad and it’s hard to make things out of the crackle. Justice’s been done, and although I don’t really know all that much about it, you can still feel glad about it. It’s just one of those things.
What we weren’t expecting was that his replacement’s a griffon. One of the sons of a griffon elder. The radios talk about “diplomatic moves” and “intercontinental relations” and “trade”, but I’m kinda worried. I’m sure he’s a nice, um, fellow, and more responsible, and he’s already moving orders to get the sun back on us, which is good, but the union doesn’t seem to like it. Like, I’m not supposed to be working now, but I have to, because we get paid by the day and every day counts. We’re behind enough as is, and the forepony’s got bald patches trying to figure out how to make up for lost time. I don’t think he’d be happy if the few of us who’re still working stopped working. And Ma always told us to don’t do to others what you dinna want others to do to you. And besides, who ever thought of skipping work? Definitely not me. I need to work whenever I can. Construction workers don’t get much in the way of continued employment, and all, since there isn’t so much continued construction.
Some ponies are asking me why I’m not going on strike with them. I told them I needed the money. I think they get it. The truth is that not everypony wants to be on strike; I think it’s the leaders of the union who want it the most, and we never see them on site, so you have to wonder whether they know what they’re doing.
It’s the two-hundred-and-sixtieth day. The strike’s been holding up, even though the weather’s cleared up and we can actually make progress. Nopony is getting anywhere with negotiations. Eleven workers have packed up and gone home. If you’re going to do nothing, might as well do it at home, right?
I’ve been putting in my all every day, more than before, and it’s really doing a number on my back. But I gotta. We have to if we want to get the building done. Slowly but surely, we’re getting the floors done. There’s around twenty of us out of the team of a hundred and fifty - no, a hundred and thirty-four. Twenty’s a fine number. Twenty could get a house done in a couple of months real easy, though a house is a lot smaller and less complicated than an office building. We’re all day shift.
The taller it is, the more complicated it is. That makes sense, because there’s more floors and more weight to deal with, so the struts have to be more... just more, really. That’s all headwork and up to the architects, of course. We just do the fitting. And twenty’s a fine number to do fitting with. Just enough ponies to hold the supports and nail things, and keep everypony else safe and fastened.
Some of the ponies are kinda upset that there are twenty of us still working. Maybe they’re frustrated at the lack of progress, or at the union. The twenty of us are all border folk, living on the outskirts of the map, or so I’ve noticed. All honest, quiet lads with big families back home. Almost half from the chilly north, too. Not that the others aren’t honest, just that, well, maybe the others think different because they eat different. They think work’s worth skipping, and we don’t. There’s bound to be a reason for that that I’m not getting.
I mean, the griffon is obviously doing his job, right? What’s the problem then? If we can properly work now, that’s what we should do.
Mmm... Hearth’s Warming is coming up in a month or so. That’ll be a real day off. Wonder what I should do? Maybe I could do overtime. Canterlot pays more for its overtime workers, I’ve been told. It’d be a good way to keep warm at any rate. The pegasi are trying their best, but the lack of control over the past few months have messed up the order of things, or so they say.
Tonight, I sip at my flask of hot cocoa, rub my freezing hooves, and tighten the scarf around my neck, just like every other night.
It’s the three-hundredth day. Everything’s going as it should be. Yesterday, orders came from the union to start work again. Just that. And so we did. Truth be told, I think many of the ponies were happy to be able to work again. You could see it in the way they used to pace around, and poke at their food.
Despite our requests, the pegasi aren’t keeping the frost off the site. I see them trying, though, every so often, so I guess it’s just because they can’t. It’s real dangerous to work the scaffolding, now that we’re eight floors up. The wood gets damp in the Canterlotian winter, and the cold makes the wood brittle because of it. The railing’s also harder to hold, and the ropes are a lot more stiff. But we gotta keep working.
I’ve been put back on the night shift. It’s strange, having to get used to it again, sleeping in the day and all that, and getting my night vision back, but I’m not complaining. What I might be worried about is how this little bit of my back hurts whenever there’s a wind about, and sometimes it just locks... If I tell the forepony, though, I might get fired, on grounds of health. I really don’t want that. So I’d better keep quiet about it. I mean, yeah, I’ve been working all this time, and I’ve got a tidy sum on balance, but it could be more.
The view from here really is pretty. You can see the lamps lit up all over the sites, and you can see the shadows of the workers twitching and moving constantly. It’s like a construction festival. Noise is still noise, but there’s still a calm to it. And beyond that’s the sky - the vast, starry sky. I love that the most. It’s where I learned to count. Most ponies use paper, but I always wanted to know how many stars there were in the sky. So I tried to count them. And I kept on counting them. And before I knew it, I learned how to count up to... a lot. A really big number. I’m not sure what it is anymore. Pity.
In a couple more hours, it’ll be the new year. Come to think of it, I’ve never been away from home for the new year. Somehow I’d always be back home. Probably because nopony builds anything around the holiday season, until now that is. But now that I think about it, it’s my first new year’s alone. Well, not alone. There’s all the other workers, too.
The forepony’s shouting, but he sounds different. There’s a cart coming in and it’s filled with something. Whatever it is, a lot of ponies are getting interested in it really quickly.
Oh! The forepony’s telling us to come down. He’s got a treat for us, for the new year, and he says he’s giving us the rest of the night off. That’s really nice of him.
A lot of the ponies look happy. That’s the first time I’ve seen them like this. It’s really nice. And warm-feeling, too.
So now, I just have to put my cup down, grab the rope, and I’ll just strain my poor back for one last moment - don’t fail me, buddy - and we’ll ease down the building...
Tonight was amazing. You won’t believe it, but I gotta tell you anyways. I saw Princess Luna! The Princess Luna herself!
See, I was just walking in the woods, right. It’s the night shifter in me. You have to just do something with your hooves when the day gets cool. Anyways, what I was doing was walking in the woods, and then I come upon a clearing. Really wide, open, nice cool clearing, and it isn’t marsh, too, which is great for a place like Trottingham.
And in the clearing I saw the back of Princess Luna, just sitting there, staring at the full moon.
She must’ve heard me, even though I was trying to be quiet. That’s clumsy me for you. Ma always said I was a rough cut. She turned and looked at me. I couldn’t see her face, because her shadow was covering it, but there was... something about her. Her mane and tail were flowing even though there wasn’t any wind. The only thing I could really see from the distance was her eyes, and even then I couldn’t see that clearly.
She just faced me, and I faced her, and I didn’t know what to do.
I mean, Princess Luna, all the way in Trottingham! And I’m a rough cut, just some construction worker pony, and not even that - an unemployed construction worker pony.
I think I bowed. I must have. Manners, and all that, right, because Ma wouldn’t stand for me being disrespectful to the Princess. But anyhow, we didn’t say anything, and then, somehow, she was gone.
I mean, I know I’m pretty slow. I can do numbers, but that’s about it. But I finally thought of what to say to her, after she was gone, and it was real nice and simple too. It was simply “Thank you for the night”, because I like the nights. There’s a strange calm about them. A real warm, peaceful kind of calm, even in the cold seasons.
I guess I’ll have to tell her that if there’s a next time.
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