//------------------------------//
// Chapter 4 
// Story: Parrothead in Paradise 
// by PastCat 
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We gradually became more creative when it came to building things and more adept when it came to getting food. Nic started a garden in the courtyard and experimented with anything we could find for him. Pineapples did okay, as did a plantain tree. Trish helped too, but she was more interested in making sure the buildings stayed useable. She took to exploring inside the many collapsed, overgrown, and abandoned buildings around campus, bringing back anything useful. I helped when I could, but I never felt safe going underground. There was something about having nothing between myself and the treetops that was comforting. Going underground… nope. 

There was another reason I hated her claustrophobic adventures because of an incident that happened early on. Trish had managed to find the building that had once housed the music department. She had the bright idea to see if any of the old musical instruments in there could be useful for us. I was the one she chose to come with, probably because I was the only other one of us who knew what to do with chunks of brass and whatever other instrument pieces we might find. Piano wire, for instance, could be useful for snares. We went into the darkened building with a flashlight. There were a lot of nooks and crannies full of rotten wood; we had to be careful where we stepped. Hooves are tough. Paws… not so much.

The pianos in the practice rooms were long gone; strings snapped and wood fell apart, leaving keys scattered among the debris on the floor like lost teeth. I managed to salvage some wire, but not as much as I’d hoped.  I doubted that anything else useful would be left, or at least that anything could still be playable. We found ourselves in a large room full of crumbling containers. Light broke in through the remnants of an old skylight. Through the wood of the large boxes, I could see glimpses of metal. We propped our flashlight so we could see well enough into the corners of the cavernous room. Trish gestured for me to help her move one of the boxes into the light. Between the two of us, the box fell open with a crash, revealing the mangled brass tubing of a sousaphone. Trish pointed to the large bell. “That would be something useful for our rain catcher, don’t you think?” 

I nodded. “Let’s get another one just in case we can’t use this one. I don’t know how well this stuff will hold up after being in here like this.” We managed to find three more intact sousaphones; two were brass, the third fiberglass. As we prepared to carry the pieces out into the sunlight, I spotted a very familiarly shaped oblong box one one of the more sheltered shelving units. The wood and metal case was intact, to my surprise. I pulled it out carefully, avoiding the handles and rusty hinges. I carried it out with me and into the natural sunlight. Trish watched with curiosity.

With a deep breath I flipped open each of the clasps holding the instrument case closed. The hinges, though rusty, opened easily and I found myself staring at the silvery gray patina of a professional grade bass trombone. I wiped away the remains of the padding of the case to get a closer look. I would have expected the bell to be etched with some of the usual manufacturers marks, or something simple like a flower or plant pattern. Instead, this instrument had something totally different: an etching of waves surrounding the prow of a battleship, guns pointed heavenward. I could see a name near the edge, but I could not quite make it out until I wiped more of the grime away. USS Arizona. Ho. Lee. Shit. 

I gently lifted the trombone bell out of the case; even through the years it still seemed to glow in the sunlight. I carefully dug through the rest of the case until I could pull out the inner and outer slides, then assembled the instrument. Only a mouthpiece was missing. I was about to look for one, when I realized that even if I found one of the right size to play this beautiful instrument, I no longer had the biological equipment to use it. After all, bird beaks don’t have lips.

The ship’s brass trombone fell from my talons with a clang. Luckily it did not fall far and landed lightly. I barely noticed. I was shaking too hard. This was a piece of history. Even more so, this was a piece of me. I’d been a trombonist. Not a great one, mind you, but a good enough one. I’d have certainly played my heart out just to touch something like this. Now everything about my personal connection to music had changed forever.

I had trained for a decade as a brass player, with the lip flexibility to buzz into the mouthpiece of my beloved low brass horns. Even had I turned pony like my friends, I still could have played; slides are more forgiving to fingerlessness than valves. My reach was even better now, but unless I figured out a way to vibrate this new mouth, I would never play again. The beautiful piece of history by my feet was nothing more than a piece of fancy artwork. Practically useless.

That was when the waterworks started. Everything I had been pushing to the back of my mind came out all at once. I had been so busy recently with the others trying to find ways to make myself at home, that I had never given myself a chance to think about my past life. Not my friends, my teachers and coaches, my family, my home, nothing. Now it all rushed back to me in a torrent: the view of mist rising over the cornfields at dawn over a cup of coffee, the exhilaration of marching pregame and halftime at the football games, the joy of landing at the airport and being greeted by my parents during winter and summer breaks… For just a little while, I felt isolated and alone with my memories and the loss. I crumpled back on myself, ending up sitting back on my haunches. I couldn’t take my eyes off the etched trombone. It represented everything I’d been, in a way. Musician. Artist. History dork. Tourist. Human. I mourned the last most of all.

I felt a fuzzy presence huddling up next to me. Trish was there; she drew me into a hug as best she could. I hugged her back and carefully wrapped my wings around both of us. I held her close while she whispered “It’s ok, let it out. I know it hurts, so let it out.” I sobbed into her soft fur as she petted the feathers on my head. When the tears were gone, she looked up at me. “I was wondering why you weren’t freaking out like the rest of us, Zoe. Have you been holding all… this… in the whole time?” 

I nodded. “S-sorry. I don’t like to be such a … a … weakling.”

“You are not a weakling, Zoe. It’s not good for you or healthy for you to be holding back like this. You know, this whole time you have been everywhere, and helping everybody. Do you really think the rest of us are hiding the way we feel? That none of us have had our moments of nostalgia?”

I shrugged, but then shook my head. Trish continued. “It is not, and has never been, your job to shoulder all the emotional burdens of our group. It is not your duty to ensure we are all upbeat and optimistic. Yes, the attitude helps, but you can’t do everything yourself.” She lowered her voice. “I know you like being independent, birdbrain, but there is a difference between independence and being a loner. Just as you are here for us, we are here for you. If you let us be.” She hugged me tighter. I am pretty sure that grip became stronger since she became a pony. “We are all here for each other now, Zoe. You, me, Emmy, Nic, Doc, and even Adam. We need to have faith in each other and watch out for each other. Together.”

She held me for a couple more minutes before I felt better and that I could sit on my own again. I looked back at her in the sunlight and saw something I had never noticed before. On her flank was what looked like a tattoo on her fur. It appeared to be a trio of eighth notes with hearts as the round bits on the bottom. She saw me looking and giggled. “I know you were looking through the pony chapters of the guidebook, Parrothead, but did none of them tell you it was rude to stare at someone’s butt?” I blushed as she pulled me to my feet. “Now come on. Let’s get these big pieces back to camp.” She stacked the bells in one pile for her to carry and shoved the rest onto a tarp for us to haul together. It was unbelievable how much stronger she was than me, but I managed to hold my own. I left that wondrous trombone where it had fallen. I did not look back.