When Peter fell asleep, he was in his own bed. When he woke, he had all the pretty little ponies.

And the ponies sang.

It was nothing like “My Little Pony”: no pastel colors, no expressive cartoony faces, nothing even remotely humanoid. The ponies were exactly like real-world ponies.

Except they sang.

Not in English—not in any human language, past, present, or future. The ponies sang in a language all their own. The sounds were exactly what you’d expect to hear from ponies in real life, but there were definite words and a definite melody in them.

No human could possibly speak this language: we don’t have the anatomy.

But Peter thought he understood the meaning of the song, even if he couldn’t translate it exactly. He took that meaning, along with his own words, and got something like this:

“You the head, us the body;

Let us carry you to world’s end.

You goad, we gallop;

Let us ride into battle.”

Without thinking, Peter began to wave his arms like a conductor at the philharmonic.

And the ponies followed his lead.

They gathered in a circle around the boy.

They bowed.

Then they lifted him up, and he rode.

Peter could not have said how he rode all the ponies at the same time, but he did.

And the ponies carried Peter to the sea.

They did not stop when they came to the wine-dark sea, but continued to carry Peter forward, as though they were not ponies but boats.

And still they sang.

But now their song changed.

Now it was as though the sea itself were singing, and it sang a different tune, something like this:

“Ware my waves, lest you drown.

Ride me and be not afraid.

As an anchor I weigh you down.

Ride me and be not afraid.”

Peter could not have said when the ponies (boats?) disappeared, but now the waves of the sea herself carried him, faster and faster, higher and higher.

Peter surfed the salty spray—

—and wiped out.

Davy would have had him, had not Clarence reached down and saved him.

They rode the waves, faster and faster, higher and higher.

Peter could not have said when the sea vanished beneath him, but vanish it did. Now he and Clarence rode the very winds.

And the winds sang.

Peter could not translate the wind’s song, for it sang in many tongues of fire, and the flames settled upon his head. And yet he understood this song more deeply than any he had yet heard.

It was beyond words.

Peter dared not let go of Clarence—but where was he?

The winds ignited, and Peter was engulfed in flame.

Yet he was not consumed.

And the flames sang their secret song.

And Peter became the flames, singing their secret song. Yet he remained himself.

Peter could not have said when he ceased to move, but now he found himself seated upon a golden throne, sporting a white crown and a red crown. He could not have said how we wore two crowns on his head, but wear them he did.

And Peter sang his song.

Peter’s song was something like the Beatles song “Let it Be”, and yet it was nothing like. It was the true song that Paul McCartney merely aspired to when he wrote the song.

And Mother Mary came to him, speaking the Word of Wisdom: “Let it be.”

Peter could not have said at what point he awoke, but awaken he did, and there was Mother Mary standing right in front of him.

She held the book: his favorite story, the one he had just lived.

And Peter said, “Let it be.”

And she gave him to drink, and he drank.

Mildheartness.