literature

Wonderful: Part4

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Part Four: Weaver Bird

        “There, there, Quiz,” soothed Pansy.  “It didn’t happen.  It was in another reality that never existed.  Sunflower is fine.”

        Quiz did not stir.

        “Besides, you don’t believe in us,” Cookie pointed out.  “It was an illusion created by illusions.  That puts your friend two steps removed from real danger.”

        “I don’t think that’s helping, Cookie,” said Pansy.

        “Oh, surely Quizzical doesn’t actually believe the vision came from her subconscious,” said Clover.  “You do trust your subconscious, don’t you, Quizzical?”

        Quiz sat up and shook her head.  “No, Miss Clover.  Oh, no.  Not at all.”

        “Well, Clover likes to lead with strength,” said Cookie.  “Which I’ve been told is not the same as showing off…”

        “No, they’re actually very different,” said Clover.

        

        “So you tell me,” said Cookie.  “Anyhow, that was probably the most drama you can expect from this evening, Quiz.  And I have a bonus for you.  You don’t star in the next vision.”

        “Oh, how are you going to do that?” asked Clover.  “You can’t show the girl her life without her!”

        “Quiz has a cameo,” said Cookie.  “We can begin any time you feel steady enough, Quiz.”

        “Apparently, this evening will never end until you feel you are done with me,” said Quiz.  “So, I am ready to continue.”

        Cookie held out a leg to Quiz.  “Take my hoof.”

        The world changed.

#

        Quiz stood next to Cookie in Pony Joe’s Doughnut Shop.  In the corner furthest from door, Quizzes younger self sat alone.  Books, papers, and drafting tools were spread over her table, leaving just barely enough room for a mug of cocoa.

        “I like this place,” said Cookie.  “I wish we’d had something like this back in my day.”

        “I am also very fond of Pony Joe’s,” said Quiz.  “I would often come to work here, particularly when my dorm mates were enjoying themselves a bit loudly.  It is somehow more comfortable than the library.”

        A mare in an apron and a waitress’ cap crept quietly up Quiz's table and replaced the mug of cocoa with a fresh one.

    “I knew it,” said Quiz.

    “Knew what?” asked Cookie.  The way she was smirking indicated that she knew the answer.

    “The waitress is Mrs. Weaver Bird,” said Quiz.  “I would often concentrate so deeply on my work that I would forget all about my cocoa.  Yet it was almost always warm.  I knew Mrs. Bird was sneaking me a fresh mug all along.”

    “That’s right nice of her,” said Cookie.  “Oh, look, you have an audience.”

    A little peach colored filly, not yet school aged, was watching Quiz work.  She seemed utterly fascinated.

    “Oh, dear,” said Quiz.  “Is there any way we can nudge me?  Otherwise it will be a long time before she can get my attention.”

    “Sorry, Quiz,” said Cookie.  “You’re just going to have to wait for you.”

    Eventually, younger Quiz did look up long enough to see that she was being watched.  She set her marking pen and her t-square down and said, “Hello.”

    “Hi,” said the filly.  “I’m Persimmon.  Whatcha doing?”

    “My name is Quiz.  I am making a graph for a term paper,” said Quiz.  Quiz floated her work over to where the filly could see it better.  “The colored bars show how large the five most important crops in Equestria are.  The ones with the purple borders are today, the ones with the black borders are how large they were one hundred years ago.”

    Persimmon regarded the graph critically.  “It’s pretty.  But you should have put the green one in between the red and orange ones, they look too much alike.  And you didn’t use any blue.  Blue’s my favorite.  Everything looks better with blue.”

    “Clearly, I did not give color enough thought,” said Quiz.  “Are you Mrs. Bird’s daughter?  She is a very good waitress.”

    “My Mommy isn’t a waitress!” exclaimed Persimmon.  “She says that’s just her day job.  My Mommy is a fabric designer.”

    “I see,” said Quiz.  “That must be how you know so much about colors.”

    “Sure,” said Persimmon.  She turned her head and opened her bulging saddle bag with her mouth.  It was so full of colored markers that several spilled out.  “Do you need any more colors? I’ve got lots.  I have sixteen shades of blue!”

    Quiz used her magic to pick up the dropped markers for Persimmon.  “I have enough, thank you.  But I will seek your advice on my next project, I think.  So, your mother designs fabric?”

    “Yeah.  Sometimes she prints it, and sometimes she weaves it right into the fabric with colored thread.”  Persimmon frowned.  “But mostly she just draws.  Weaving takes a lot of time, and Mommy doesn’t have a lot of time.”

    “Persimmon!”  Weaver Bird had returned from the kitchen.  “Don’t bother Miss Quizzical, she’s a very busy girl.”

    “It is alright, Mrs. Bird,” said Quiz.  “She has been advising me on color selection.  Persimmon has been very helpful.”

            The world changed.

    

#

            They were back on the train.

    “This sparked an idea for you, didn’t it, Quiz?” asked Cookie.

    “It occurred to me that I was in a position to do something for Mrs. Bird,” said Quiz.  “I admit, I felt a little guilty.  I had seen Mrs. Bird drawing in her notebook, though only when business was very slow.  I never asked about the designs she was creating.  I did not want to pry, really.  But it must have seemed as if I did not care.”

    “Then you dove into the project whole hog,” said Cookie.  “The way you tend to do.”

    “You went out of your way to visit Joe’s when business was slowest,” said Pansy.  “You chatted with Weaver Bird every chance you had.  She thought you just wanted someone to talk to.  What you were really doing was gathering information.”

    “You hit the books, of course,” said Clover.  “You read everything your school had on textiles, and all the trade journals.  Then you went to the library at the little trade school where Weaver got her degree.  You actually talked to their career councilor.”

    “You put in a lot of hoof work,” said Cookie.  “You talked to the managers of fabric stores.  You interviewed dressmakers and tailors.  You spoke with weavers…”

    “Please,” said Quiz, holding up a leg to get their attention.  “You make it sound as if I have done something extraordinary.  I put little more effort into this than any other research project.  It was quite interesting work, actually.”

    The three mares collectively heaved a heavy sigh.

    “Quiz, you should stop being casually dismissive about everything you do,” said Pansy.  “Everypony you know would be relieved if you did.”

    “I… um… think I might have been told that,” muttered Quiz.

    “Anyway, three months later your ‘research project’ was complete,” said Cookie.  “Let’s see how it turned out.”

    The world changed.

    

#

    Quiz and Cookie had returned to Pony Joe’s.  The bells over the door rang, and Quiz turned to see herself leaving.

    Weaver Bird went to clean Quiz's table.  There, held down by a few bits for a tip, was a folder filled with documents.  A note stuck to the folder read “Mrs. Bird, please consider this.  Quizzical.”  She began paging through it.

    “What the hay is this?”

    “That...,” said Pony Joe, who had come up behind Weaver and was reading over her shoulder.  “...appears to be an application for a microloan from the Greystone Foundation.”

    “Is this a joke?  The kid thinks I need charity?!”

    Watching this, Quiz cringed.  “I never meant to upset her so,”

    “Shhh!  Watch what happens,” said Cookie.

    “It’s not charity,” said Joe.  “It’s a low interest small business loan with no collateral and no time limit.  It’s an investment in the future.  It says so right there in their pamphlet.”

    “It’s a bunch of swells giving hand outs so they can feel good about themselves!”  Weaver waved her legs about in agitation.  “I am not going to become some worthless little socialite’s pet!”

    “Excuse me!”  Joe glared at her.  “Are we talking about the same filly here?  Quiet, polite, always over tips?  Lugging a big ol stack of books around, papers spread all over the table, working all the time?  Usually so deep in her work she doesn’t notice anything around her?  Yeah, she’s definitely ‘worthless little socialite’ material.”

    Weaver looked away.  “Okay, I’m sorry.  That was unfair.  She is a good kid.  And Persimmon loves her.  She asks all the time, ‘Mommy, did you see the filly who talks funny today?’”

    “Hay, don’t let her hear you say that,” said Joe.

    “Ooops!”  Cookie blushed.

    “It is alright, Miss Cookie,” said Quiz.  “I am aware of Persimmon’s nickname for me.  She also calls me ‘Miss Fancy Graphs.’  I find it cute.”

    “This is overwhelming!”  Weaver was spinning about in a complete dither.  “What am I supposed to do with this?”

    “Well, since she filled out the whole form for you I think you just sign it and send it in,” said Joe.  “Quiz even included a self addressed, stamped envelope.”

    “That’s not what I meant!”

    Joe snickered.  “What you do is you get the money, you take a couple weeks to make a bunch of samples, and peddle them around town.”

    “I can’t just drop everything and start a business!  I don’t have a business plan!”

    “Yeah, you do,” said Joe, holding up a document.  “Quiz wrote you one.”

    “I am not comfortable with this.”  Weaver began pacing in a circle.

    Joe scanned the business plan.  “Estimated expenses, potential markets, ...she even calculated the wear and tear on your loom.  Oh, cool, Quiz included graphs.  I should have expected that.”

    “I’m not ready for this!”  Weaver fluttered her hooves in front of her face.  “I am so not ready for this!”

    “Well, just when were you going to start that business you’ve been dreaming about?” asked Joe.

    “When I’ve saved a little more…”

    “You can’t keep putting it off,” said Joe.  “Or eventually you are going to change it from ‘your business savings’ to ‘Persimmon’s college fund.’”

    “What if I’m turned down?  Why should I get my hopes up?”

    “See this letter of recommendation?  Quiz wrote it directly to the Foundation Director.  Her mother.  I think you’re preapproved.  Oh, and it says you qualify for matching funds from the Royal Department of Commerce.  When you apply, remember to include this letter Quiz got you from Princess Luna.”

    Weaver grabbed Joe by the shoulders.  “I can’t do this, Joe.  How can I take this money?”

    “Come with me.”  Joe half led, half dragged Weaver back to his office.  He pointed to a dusty, framed certificate.  It was easy to overlook it among the clutter of mementos tacked to the wall.  “There!  Greystone Foundation Microloan number eight.  I was an early adopter.”

    “You?”

    “Me.” Joe nodded.  “Back then I didn’t have the shop, just a cart.  Once a week I use to ride the rail spur up into the mountains.  What I didn’t sell on the train I’d take out to the Greystone quarry.  Quizzes’ dad would call a break and buy it all for his workers.  I always like him; Chisel Greystone worked as hard as anyone on his payroll.  I owe my business to getting that loan.  Ponies like the Greystones are why I can stand the so called elite.”

    “If I do this. how are you going to get through breakfast rush all alone?”  It sounded like a weak excuse even to Weaver.

    Joe wave it off, then pointed to a stack of papers on his desk.  “I get a ton of job applications from poor students every semester.  I might have to hire a couple of them to replace you.  Maybe three.”

    “Wow,” gasped Weaver.  “I’m really going to do this, aren’t I?”

    “If you don’t, you are going to break the poor kid’s heart,” said Joe.  “And then you’ll have to deal with me, because I will be very mad at you.”

    The world changed.

    

#

    “I think that went quite well, don’t you, Quiz?” asked Cookie.  She leaned back in her train seat and stretched.

    “It went as I anticipated,” said Quiz.  “Mrs. Bird’s fabrics are popular with the clothiers of Canterlot.  And I have been able to recommend them to Miss Rarity.  She has become a very good customer.”

    “Don’t you try to dismiss this as no big deal,” said Cookie.  “I could show you what life is like for Weaver Bird without you, but there’s no point.  You’ve already seen it.  For her it’s just more of the same. Each year she dreams she’ll start her business ‘next year.’  Next year never comes.  The dream fades to little more than a daydream.  Weaver will still fill notebooks with designs, she can’t help herself.  But she never shows them to anypony.  Eventually, she’ll spend the money she set aside on Persimmon’s college fund.”

    “Speaking of Persimmon,” said Pansy, “She enjoys the birthday gifts you’ve sent her very much.”

    Quiz almost smiled.  “I enjoy sending them.  And every time I believe I have run out of shades of blue marker, the art supply companies invent more.”

Chapter 5 here <da:thumb id="501850301">
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