Featherfall

The young moon cast a faint glow over Ambrose’s modestly furnished room, its pale light barely enough to illuminate the humble space. Even with this reluctant gift from the night, it seemed hardly sufficient to pick out a specific object in the room. Yet the unusual pony sat calmly by the window, finishing the last chapter of an engrossing book.

To call her a “pony,” though, wasn’t quite accurate. Two small tufts of downy feathers jutted out from her head, like the antennae of an insect, with a single small horn between them, punctuated by a few delicate holes. These little openings decorated her membranous wings and even her hooves, inviting wonder about what purpose nature had in mind with such "gifts."

However, Ambrose did not appear frightening, or even peculiar. Quite the opposite. The plush fur on her chest and the tips of her ears, her even fluffier tail, lively eyes, and small, mischievous fangs painted a picture that charmed and intrigued anyone who met her. An earring on her left ear added the final touch to an impression of a bright, merry soul.

This crafty, species-defying creature turned the last page of her “Guide to Medicinal Herbs and Healing Berries,” stretched, sticking out her tongue, and set the book beside the stove. She hopped onto the creaky floor and ambled toward the door, bound for the outside.

She had no plans for the day. Nor for yesterday, or tomorrow, for that matter. Ambrose hadn’t troubled herself with plans at all over the past year. A small orchard provided her with fruit, a run-down ten-by-ten shack offered shelter, and a bookshelf filled with books left by the cabin’s previous owner kept her entertained.

Ambrose flopped down in the clearing outside her home. Stretching out a hoof, she gazed through it at the sky, mentally listing the constellations. "Arrow," "Great Bear," "Knapsack"—the three brightest clusters of sparks across the heavens. The rest she only dimly remembered. The book on constellations had been the first to go up in flames as kindling since it was the least useful. Naturally, this was only after reading it from cover to cover.

After “Constellations and Secrets of the Night Sky” went “Black Monday,” a bundle of newspapers from who-knows-what-year, children’s textbooks, and “A Guide to Etiquette on the Islands of Lazy Pegasus.” She hadn’t even bothered finishing the last one. And as for the remaining books, she hadn’t the heart to burn them yet. But late autumn was approaching, and more paper would be needed to stoke the tiny stone stove’s fire. The rain, too, would come more often, and fall heavier.

Ambrose gave a skeptical glance at her shack’s roof and nodded to her thoughts. The time was near. Another week, maybe two, and she’d have to leave. The fruit had nearly stopped ripening, the cold nights brought prickly winds and dampness, and even the once-bountiful library of abandoned books was nearing depletion. A few more days, perhaps ten or a dozen, and her supply would vanish.

Ambrose rose from the damp nighttime grass and shook herself off. Casting a final glance at the night sky, which was beginning to lighten, she made her way back to her home, gathering pine cones and damp twigs along the way. It was time to kindle the stove and read a few more pages of ancient wisdom. Next up were The First Love of Malcolt Mee and Assembly Instructions for the "Cobweb" Wardrobe-Bed, both destined for the ever-hungry salamander of her little library’s stone fireplace.

Almost time.

But not quite yet.