//------------------------------// // 9: Comfort in Ab Major // Story: Inverno’s Opus in A Minor // by CrackedInkWell //------------------------------// Shining Armor pulled the sliding doors to hop into their car, seeing Inverno right where he left him. The colt had indeed calmed down enough from his crying earlier, but Inverno was still wrapped in blankets like a cocoon with only his face sticking out. With a sigh, Shining walked over and sat next to him. “Are you okay?” He asks and Inverno shook his head. “You know that I’m still here for you.” “I wish mom was here.” His son muttered. “Yeah… so do I.” His dad nodded. “Cade is better with things like this more than I do. Then again… I don’t know what anyone else could say after a scare like that.” Shining sighed. “I was scared of losing you.” Inverno placed a hoof on his. “Me too.” Shining nuzzled him. “Are you sure I can’t get you anything?” His son shook his head. The Prince got up and was about to leave when the colt asked, “Are you sure you didn’t see him?” He paused as he looked back at him. “I didn’t. Maybe something was and I just didn’t notice. It could have been an illusion that was only affecting you.” “But dad,” Inverno sat up, “I saw him. I saw Papa and heard him about… wanting me back. I mean, I know the truth about him and what he did. But to see him again… How is it that the pony I’ve known all my life could suddenly turn into my biggest fear? I mean…” He trailed off as he flopped back onto the bed. “I take it that you feel conflicted?” His father asked. “I don’t know if it was because of Schubit’s magic or how terrifying everything was… I was afraid dad… so afraid…” Shining followed his fatherly instincts as he went over to hug him. “You know that I can’t promise to protect you from everything, but as your dad, I’m willing to throw my life down if it means keeping you safe. Inverno, if you want to go home now, I’ll tell the engineer-” “No,” Inverno said. “I can’t go home yet.” “But you almost died.” He looked up in his father’s eyes and said, “If there is anything I’ve learned from you and mom, is that for whatever I’ve done, it should be up to me to take up whatever responsibility I’ve caused. I was the one that made this mess, and it’ll be me that will have to clean it up. I’m not going home until every composer I’ve unleashed is back in one place. If I could write up an apology symphony for the Crystal Ponies, then I will find them. But at the same time, I know I can’t do this alone.” Shining rubbed his head. “You really are growing up. But just so you know, that if any of this gets too intense, just say the word, and I will send you home.” Sniffing, Inverno asked, "So where are we going to now?" “Before we turn south, our next stop is a coastal city west of us. It’s called Vanhoover, and it’ll be a much bigger place than our last two stops, so tracking our next guy is gonna get tricky.” “Why’s that?” “Well… being a city, there’s obviously gonna be a whole lot more ponies, which more than likely means we'll be staying there for a few days. Perhaps less if we’re lucky. And to make things worse, I’ve never been there so… I have no idea what to expect.” “I never saw anything outside of the Crystal Empire,” Inverno said. “And I can’t wait to see more. But…” “What?” The colt glanced down towards the lower end of the train. “What about Schubit?” “I’ve talked to him and he swears that what had happened was truly an accident. However, we think we have an idea about how this whole music-magic thing works. So… There’s something at least.” “And Maneler? I mean… did he found what he was looking for?” His father shrugged. “I… I honestly have no idea. Since I’ve ordered everyone to get back on the train, I didn’t think about that. All I know is that he’s back on board.” Meanwhile on the other end of the train, Professor Key Signature entered inside the caboose where he found Maneler at the piano, playing a melancholic, slow but ambient adagio where the strings sang a prayer in its lower notes. The deer didn’t notice the old stallion entering as he kept on playing. It wasn’t until that the Professor cleared his throat that he ceased playing and craned his head around. “I’d thought you like to know that the colt is going to be alright.” “You know I've heard that,” Maneler turned around on the piano bench, “so what was that about? Is he hurt?” “No. He was in shock as Schubit gave him quite a fright. The Prince and I confronted him about it and discovered that it was purely an accident. However, I could tell Prince Shining is still upset and left Schubit shaken up.” “Oh… I see. Still, I have to give him thanks for permitting me to see what became of my old home… and my daughter’s grave…” The Professor walked further into the lounge area of the car. “I hope I don’t sound as if I’m prying, but were you able to make your peace with her?” He nodded. “At least I was finally able to tell her that I was sorry… for everything. But even so… it still left me to feel empty inside.” “Do you think you’re going to be alright?” “I will be. At least I have the time to… Oh!" His ears perked up in realization, "I forgot, I didn’t get the chance to tell either of you this, but it happened again, at her grave.” This caught the Professor’s attention. “What? Do you mean that magic from earlier?” “Well… Yes and no. Once again, it was triggered by an emotion I had while I was there. But this time, the music that came out was something else. And I know what it was.” “What?” “The opening movement to my fifth symphony – the funeral march. Only this time, something different happened. Instead of a forest…” He cleared his throat before saying: “I saw the ghost of my daughter, and I was able to talk to her.” The train car went silent as the Professor processed what he was hearing. “Are you telling the truth?” “You could have that guard that was with me testify if you’d like, he’ll tell you the same. But there she was… right there in front of me was her ghost. I busted into tears as I told her that I was sorry for not being the father she needed and pleaded with her for forgiveness. And… she understood. Telling me that she still loves me and said that I shouldn’t be mean to myself for what had happened. At least this time, we were able to say goodbye to one another. Fortunately for me, minutes after the music and she went away that a guard said that we needed to get back on the train.” The professor sunk onto his plot, awestruck. “You mean… you have the power to talk to the dead?” “I really don’t know what that was, but I’m glad that I was at least tell her everything I wanted to say.” “But… Mr. Maneler, don’t you realize the enormous amount of power you have? I mean, if what you say is indeed true, if you could grow a forest and speak to the dead… Have you thought about what else you might be able to be capable of?” “I have.” The deer said as he closed the lid over the keys of the piano. “And frankly, Professor, the idea is already frightening as it is. I mean, if I could do those things – and that Schubit darkens the sky and almost killed a colt by accident – just imagine what the others might be able to do.” Buch had never seen any place like Vanhoover. It was a place that was full of contradictions and counterbalances. Nearly every street, it seemed, was part forest and part modern structure. Where traces of old, brick buildings shared side by side with skyscrapers of stone, steel, and glass. Even in a section of the city called the Gas District, he couldn’t help but think that samples of life of flora and fauna were crammed together. Here, street performers in bazaar costumes entertain for bits, and there, a group of tourists gets off a bus to admire the buildings and the steam-powered clock that was down the street from a music hall: The Gaslight Theater. Through the ebony doors and around hallways that lead to the backstage, a Pegasus sat in a chair with a number around his neck. The light green stallion looked this way and that of the row of other musicians. Some were as young as foals while others were ancient but all were just as equally nervous. He noted that many of them not only held onto their instruments, but all of these clean, well-brushed ponies were looking at him. He knew of course why. He wasn’t able to bathe in the past few days, and he had none of the fine clothing that they had. He knew that compared to them, he was a beggar that fit the part. From his greasy gray mane to his broken feathers on his wings, he stood out like a sore hoof. Yet, even as he waited, he kept touching his smooth face. A younger face that he knew wasn’t his, but close. A hefty kind that was free of wrinkles, from the years of stress while wearing that hot, heavy powdered wig. If anything, he wasn’t even sure if he liked the new body. But he was certain that he must do something if he’ll be able to eat tonight. “Number fifty-one, you’re up.” A unicorn with a clipboard said. Taking a deep breath, Buch walked up towards the stage, going past the previous mare that went up, returning in tears. Almost never a good sign to see in his opinion. However, he had to press onto the stage of bright lights, a piano, and a microphone. He could hear the audience muttering as soon as he set hoof on that stage. His scruffiness in full view of everyone, including the three judges in the front row. All old and had the eyes of vultures as they watched him approach the microphone. As soon as he was right in front of it, he heard one of the judges say: “I take it that you had a bad day?” “Huh?” “You look disheveled.” Another judge said. “Did you bothered to try to keep up with the dress code?” “With all due respect sirs,” Buch replied, “I have no money to buy clothing. Or food for that matter.” “So why did you come to the Philharmonic Competition?” Asked another judge. “Isn’t it obvious? I heard about your grand prize of five-hundred bits and a position in the orchestra. So, if I do win, I could afford to eat and, Celestia willing, earn a job so I may have a place to stay.” He heard more muttering among the audience, this time with a more sympathetic tone to his ears. “So, can you play an instrument?” The first judge asked. “I can.” “What are you good at?” Buch looked over to the piano and responded, “The Keyboard.” “And what are you going to play for us – Mister…?” The stallion thought for a moment of mixing the letters in his own name before responding: “Call me Chub.” This got a laugh from the audience. “Okay…?” He heard the second judge say. “So… Mr. Chub… What piece are you going to play for us on the piano?” “I was thinking of… Buch.” In the dim light, he saw all three judges scribbling on their clipboards. “Always a favorite choice.” The third spoke. “What in particular?” “I was thinking from the first book of the Well-Tempered Clavier. The second Prelude and Fugue in C minor.” He saw some nodding from the judges. “Very well.” The first judge said. “Show us what you can do.” With a nod, he turned his attention towards the piano, eyeing at the black and white keys. Before he could sit down, he pressed down on a key, listening in of the echo it had in that theater, making a quick calculation of how to play his prelude and fugue before sitting down at the keys, closing his eyes. He waited until all was still, taking in deep breaths before he reached out towards the keys as the familiar, ecstasy of an opening being envisioned before opening his eyes, and began in a furry. An explosion of notes came in which everyone in that theater was caught in the cross-fire. Notes that went by so fast and yet, so clear that the audience, including the judges, were caught off guard by the virtuosity of it all. It was almost as if during that Prelude, he was playing a storm in which he was in complete control. But even in this hurricane of sound, Buch’s face was calm as he recalled every note from memory as if it was something he knew his whole life. It was as if he was being reawakened to something he hadn’t touched on in years – and it was liberating. The Prelude lasted only a minute, and then as he looked over to his audience, he couldn’t help but notice that the theater was completely silent. At first, he was confused. Everypony he knew that heard him play tend to talk over it. But here, there was nothing from them. Not a sound. Instantly he realized something, they were listening. Really paying attention to every note. At the same time, he wished that he would get some reaction of any kind to let him know how he was doing. An applauding hoof or a disapproval yawn even. But for the first time… it was all silent. And that was unnerving to him. However, as he finished up his whirlwind by a cascade of notes from the upper register to finish off with elegant trim, he went into the fugue itself. It was the complete opposite of the stormy Prelude, but he was still in control nevertheless. A tiny theme in which at first sounded unremarkable in the clear instrument before he added another above it. Instead of becoming just a simple tune, it was two melodies that enriched the other. Adding a third below them, he wove together a tapestry of interlocking themes like a puzzle that never once collided with one another. In his mind’s eye, he could see the melodies turning, touching, and releasing like a complicated gear system of a clock. All finely tuned and interconnecting with one another. And yet, the harmony of these themes at different octaves went around like the stars in the heavens. When he drew the fugue to a quiet end, he finally heard something from an audience in the dark: applause. Standing up, he peered into the darkness to see the stomping of hooves and the cheers he received that, with a smile, he made a humble bow. However, the judges called him over to the mic stand. The first judge looked directly at him and asked: “Mr. Chub, how in Tartarus are you on the streets with talent like that?” A chilly dread went through him. “Was it not good?” “Quite the opposite, really.” The first judge leaned forward. “I have heard this piece being played a million times, and somehow, you’ve managed to not only make it your own, but you breathed new life into it. Now, did you make the cut? I say… yes.” There was applause before the second judge spoke. “Out of all we’ve heard this evening, I believe that you are the most promising musician I’ve heard in a long time. And considering the quality that we’ve judged in this competition, that is setting a very high standard. With that said, I can safely say that you’ve reached it. I say yes.” To this, this too was given approval from the audience. Then, there was the third. “You know, not everyone could play what you did. And I should know, that piece is incredible, frustratingly difficult to get it right. As a professional, it has taken me literally years just to get it sound controlled but not restrictive. With you, however, coming off the streets, sitting down at that piano there, and be able to play it flawlessly without a single note of it wrong... Whatever I have strived for, you perfected it. So, I’d say that it’s an absolute sin to refuse you. So, I say, yes.” There was a roar from the audience in which caught Buch off guard. But regardless, he knew that he’s done it. With a modest bow, he sighed in relief that he is gonna eat tonight. As he walked off stage, one of the stage assistants gave him a note that only said: Stay after the show so we can take you to dinner. We have much to talk about. – Quarter Note.