Chapter 1: The First Day

I stood at the entrance of Maplewood Farms, my breath coming out in little white puffs that quickly dissipated into the crisp morning air. I paused, full of anticipation as I reached for the buzzer to let them know I was at the gate. The sun was just beginning to rise, casting a pale, ethereal light over the fields. Everything around me felt tinged with the quiet promise of a new day, the kind that whispers of new beginnings. The familiar scents of hay, earth, and ripe apples enveloped me, grounding me in the moment. Horses had always been my passion, and when I heard about the job opening at Maplewood Farms, I didn’t hesitate. The farm was renowned in our small town for its majestic horses, but there was something else that set it apart, something that both intrigued and unnerved me—Maplewood Farms also trained ponygirls.

I had arisen before the sun to be here for the interview. I still had a few hours before I had to be at school. The interview process had been thorough, unlike any job application I had ever experienced. When I first arrived at the farm a week ago, I was greeted by Bowline and Ileana Hayes, the owners of Maplewood. They were an elegant couple, exuding a quiet confidence that immediately made it clear that they were serious about their work. Bowline, with his sharp blue eyes and graying hair, had a demeanor that was both intimidating and reassuring, while Ileana, with her warm smile and expressive eyes, seemed to sense my every thought.

After a brief introduction, I was led to a cozy office where the rest of the interview panel waited. Mark Thompson, the head trainer, and the other three handlers were seated around a large oak table, their expressions a mix of curiosity and scrutiny. I could feel their eyes on me as I took my seat, my heart pounding in my chest. This was the moment that could determine my future.

The questions began almost immediately, each one more probing than the last. They asked about my experience with horses, my ability to handle physically demanding work, and how I dealt with stressful situations. But what caught me off guard were the questions about my comfort level with the unique aspects of the farm.

“Have you heard about our ponygirls?” Ileana asked, her tone gentle but her eyes sharp.

“I’ve heard the rumors,” I admitted, my voice wavering slightly. “But I haven’t given them much thought. To me, working with animals is what matters most.”

Bowline leaned forward; his gaze intense. “This isn’t just about working with animals, Maeve. Our ponygirls are a critical part of what we do here. It requires a level of understanding and respect that goes beyond what most people expect.”

I nodded, trying to maintain my composure. “I understand. I’m willing to learn and do whatever it takes to be a valuable part of the team.”

Mark Thompson, who had been quiet until then, finally spoke. “This job isn’t for everyone. It’s demanding, both physically and emotionally. But from what I can see, you have a passion for animals. That’s a good start. We need people who can see the beauty in what we do, not just the oddity.”

His words resonated with me, and I found myself nodding again, more firmly this time. “I’m ready for the challenge.”

The interview continued for what felt like hours, covering every possible scenario I might encounter on the farm. The second half of the interview was conducted in the barn where I was required to demonstrate some of the things I claimed to be able to do. By the end of it, I was emotionally drained, but also more determined than ever. When I was finally offered the job, a mix of relief and excitement washed over me. This wasn’t just a job—it felt like a calling.

Now, standing at the entrance of the barn on my first official day, excitement and nerves swirled together inside me. The barn was alive with activity even at this early hour. Horses poked their heads out of their stalls, their eyes bright and curious as they watched me approach. The quiet rustle of hay and the soft nickering of the horses created a soothing symphony that calmed my racing heart.

As I stepped inside, my attention was drawn to a group of young women stretching and warming up in an open area at the far end of the barn. It didn’t take long for me to realize that these weren’t just any people—they were the ponygirls I’d heard so much about. Dressed in nothing but minimalistic attire that mimicked traditional horse tack, they moved with a grace and fluidity that was both captivating and surreal. Their bodies were conditioned by years of training, their postures both relaxed and disciplined.

“Welcome to Maplewood Farms, Maeve Calder,” a warm voice called out, pulling me from my thoughts.

I turned to see Mr. Thompson approaching, his tall, wiry frame silhouetted against the light streaming in from the barn’s entrance. His weathered face, marked by years spent outdoors, softened as he smiled, putting me at ease.

“Thank you, Mr. Thompson,” I replied, shaking his hand. His grip was firm, and reassuring, and I could sense the gentleness in his eyes that made me feel like I was exactly where I was meant to be.

“You’ll be working with both the horses and the ponygirls,” Mr. Thompson explained as he led me deeper into the barn. “It’s important to treat them all with the same respect and care. Do you think you’re ready for that?”

I nodded, swallowing the lump of nerves that threatened to choke me. “Yes, sir, I’m ready.”

As we walked, Mr. Thompson explained my duties in detail. I would be responsible for feeding the horses and ponygirls, cleaning their stalls, and ensuring they were groomed and ready for their training sessions. The horses were magnificent; their coats gleamed in the early morning light, muscles rippling beneath their smooth skin. But what fascinated me even more were the ponygirls.

All of them were women, and as I observed them more closely, I noticed the subtle differences in their behavior and demeanor. They wore bridles, reins, and hoof-like shoes that made their movements resemble those of actual horses. Yet, what struck me the most was the deep commitment etched into their very beings. Their bodies had adapted to this lifestyle, their arms hanging close to their bodies as if accustomed to being strapped behind their backs for long periods. Some had their bridles off, their postures more relaxed but still retaining an air of discipline.

It was strange, yes, but also incredibly intriguing. These weren’t just people playing a part—they were living it, embracing it fully.

“Let’s start with feeding,” Mr. Thompson said, handing me a bucket of oats. “The horses are first, then the ponygirls. They all have their preferences, so pay attention to what they like.”

I nodded, eager to begin. Moving from stall to stall, I offered the horses their breakfast, speaking to them in low, soothing tones as I filled their feed troughs. The horses responded to my touch, their breaths warm against my hands, their soft eyes reflecting a quiet trust. Each nudge and whinny felt like a small victory, a sign that I was earning their trust.

Next, I approached the ponygirls. They were gathered in their designated area, waiting patiently as I drew closer. A wave of uncertainty washed over me—I wasn’t sure how to interact with them. But as I began to offer them their food, I noticed the distinct personalities that shone through. Some were playful, nudging me with their shoulders or giving a small hop of excitement, while others were more reserved, waiting quietly with a dignity that commanded respect.

One human pony in particular caught my eye. She didn’t look much older than me, with short, tousled hair that framed her face and a bright, inquisitive expression. Her name, I soon learned, was Pebble. There was something about her that drew me in—perhaps it was the way she moved, with a mix of youthful energy and practiced grace, or the way her eyes sparkled with curiosity.

“Hi there,” I said softly as I filled Pebble’s food tray. “I’m Maeve. It’s nice to meet you.”

Pebble responded with a warm smile, her eyes shining with friendliness. Though she didn’t speak, there was an understanding between us that didn’t require words. My initial unease began to melt away, replaced by a growing sense of comfort. Maybe this wasn’t so strange after all.

After feeding time, I moved on to cleaning the stalls. The work was hard, but I found it oddly satisfying. There was something therapeutic about the rhythm of mucking out the stalls, the steady scrape of the pitchfork against the ground. As I worked, my thoughts drifted back to the ponygirls. They were unlike anything I had ever encountered, yet something about them was incredibly captivating.

By the time I finished my morning chores, the sun had fully risen, casting a warm golden light over the farm. A deep sense of accomplishment settled over me as I looked around at the clean stalls, the well-fed horses, and the contented ponygirls. I had only been at Maplewood Farms for a few hours, but already I felt a strong connection to this place as if I was finally where I belonged.

“Good work today, Maeve,” Mr. Thompson said as I finished up, his voice full of approval. “You’ve got a natural touch with the animals.”

“Thank you, sir,” I replied, my heart swelling with pride at his words.

As I prepared to leave for school, I couldn’t help but feel a thrill of excitement for what the future held. This job was more than I had ever imagined, and I couldn’t wait to see where it would take me. Maplewood Farms was a place of magic, where the ordinary became extraordinary, and I was ready—ready to be a part of it all, to embrace whatever came next.

By the time I arrived at school, the morning events at Maplewood Farms were still playing on a loop in my mind. The bell rang, signaling the start of the lunch period, but I barely noticed. My thoughts were consumed by the sights, sounds, and feelings of the farm—the soft knocker of the horses, the gentle warmth of their breath on my hands, and the mesmerizing presence of the ponygirls. I had heard plenty of stories about them over the years, whispered in hallways, and discussed in hushed tones among curious classmates. But nothing could have prepared me for what I had witnessed.

The version of the ponygirls that lived in my classmates’ imaginations was vastly different from the reality I had encountered. They were often spoken of as oddities, strange and unsettling, almost like mythical creatures that belonged more in a storybook than in the real world. But standing among them that morning, I hadn’t felt fear or discomfort. Instead, there had been a quiet respect, a sense of awe for their commitment and grace. The ponygirls were not the bizarre figures I had been led to believe—they were strong, dedicated, and utterly captivating in their uniqueness.

As I made my way through the cafeteria, I fished my phone out of my pocket, feeling the need to share at least a little of what I had experienced with someone who would understand. My mother was the first person that came to mind. She had always been my confidante, the one person I could tell anything to without fear of judgment. Even so, I hesitated before typing out my message. How could I explain what I had seen and felt without diving into the details that still felt too new, too raw, to share?

“Hey, Mom. Just wanted to let you know I enjoyed my job this morning. It was different, but in a good way.” I typed quickly, keeping it vague yet honest.

I hit send and slipped the phone back into my pocket, unsure of what else to say. The truth was I wasn’t even sure I fully understood what I had experienced yet. I needed time to process it, to let the morning’s events settle in my mind before I could articulate them to anyone else—even to her.

Throughout the day, my mind kept wandering back to the farm. I found myself distracted during classes, doodling little horses in the margins of my notebook and daydreaming about the farm’s open fields and bustling barn. Even my friends’ chatter during lunch couldn’t pull me out of my thoughts. It was as if a part of me was still there, still standing in the barn, feeling the roughness of the hay beneath my boots and the weight of the feed buckets in my hands.

I knew that what I was experiencing wasn’t just about the job itself. It was about what the job represented—a new chapter in my life, something that felt important and meaningful. Maplewood Farms was more than just a place to work; it was a place where the ordinary and the extraordinary intertwined, where I was beginning to see the world through a different lens. The ponygirls, the horses, the entire environment—it all felt like a gateway to something bigger, something I was only just beginning to understand.

As the school day dragged on, I found myself growing more eager to return to the farm, to immerse myself in that world once again. There was so much more to learn, so much more to experience, and I was ready—ready to embrace whatever came next, no matter how strange or unfamiliar it might seem to others.

After school, I hurried back to Maplewood Farms, eager to dive into my work. The day had stretched on, and my thoughts had frequently wandered to the barn, the horses, and the ponygirls. As I approached the barn, I noticed something unusual—most of the stalls were empty. The usual liveliness was replaced by a quieter atmosphere, marked only by the soft rustling of hay and the occasional snort from a lone horse.

Mr. Thompson was waiting for me near the entrance, his familiar smile greeting me. “Good to see you back, Maeve,” he said warmly. “You’re just in time for your next task.”

I raised an eyebrow, intrigued. “What’s that?”

“The human pony stables need to be cleaned out,” he replied, handing me a pitchfork and a bucket. “They’ve been out for training most of the day, but they’ll be back soon—before the other animals. So, we need to make sure their area is ready for them.”

I took the tools from him and headed toward the human pony stalls. The space was similar to the horse stables but had subtle differences. The stalls were equipped to meet the specific needs of the ponygirls, featuring padded floors and customized feeding troughs. Everything was arranged with meticulous precision, almost clinical in its neatness.

As I started mucking out the stalls, Mr. Thompson joined me, leaning casually against one of the posts. “You might have noticed there aren’t many ponygirls here right now,” he said, watching me work.

“Yeah, I did. Where are they?” I asked, pausing to glance at him.

“They’re out training, but they’ll be back soon,” he explained. “Most of the ponygirls here were either traded or sold to us from other farms. Only two of them began their journey into this life here at Maplewood.”