Cello Sounds
The rain lasted for several days, blanketing the last day of school in wet and gray. I sat in my room with Mother after school; she sifted through my school things, something I’m supposed to help with, but the rain out the window was too captivating. Our house was perched on a bend, allowing me to see a good distance across Canterlot and further down the mountain.
“Octavia, the rain will still be there when we’re done,” Mother chided. I sheepishly slid from my seat and into the mess of papers. Most of it was old assignments to be thrown out, but mixed in were also supplies that could be recycled and sheet music the school’s music teacher, Miss Strings, would want to look over on our weekly visit. She was a friend of Mother’s and came to tutor me while school was out.
“Miss Strings wanted me to show you this,” I said, recognizing a paper on top of the pile. “She wants me to play this for her at the start of the next school year.” Mother’s dark gray magic aura lifted the stapled packets of paper.
Mother studied the paper intently, head subtly bobbing along to the beat on the paper. I snuck a quick glance out the window just in time to see a fork of lightning burst across the clouds, bathing our street in blue for a few moments. Thunder rumbled behind, masking the sound of Father climbing the stairs, but not his knock at my door.
“Ah, there are my grayscale angels,” he said, poking his head in. Mother groaned at the bad pun, but couldn’t hide her smile. I ran over and hugged him.
“Ew, you’re wet!” I shouted, jumping back to examine the dark spot on the front of my barrel. My parents both laughed, Father even more as I pounced on Mother to soak her too.
She shook me off and rounded on Father, a malicious gleam in her eyes. “Just for that, you get to help clean.”
“Oh my look at the time, I need to go start di-” Father was cut off as a wet wad of paper smacked him in the muzzle then exploded, scattering across the floor.
“Come on, you know the drill. We need good things to hang on the wall.”
Father grumbled but came into my room, making sure to sit down hard enough to rattle the sparse decoration on my shelves. Mother glared again, but our sorting continued in peace for around an hour. It was terribly boring, but the trash pile consistently grew, the music and recycle pile significantly slower. The slowest pile of all was for Mother’s Wall of Achievement: music awards, a spelling bee second place finish, a couple of drawings.
Father stayed until he had a couple of contributions for the Wall, then left to start dinner. A few minutes later we heard a loud banging followed by the gentle wafting aroma of food being prepared.
Our cleaning naturally transitioned into group practice, which to this day is my favorite way to practice. I scrambled to set up my cello while Mother fetched hers from her practice room. We started with simple scales, a warmup, followed shortly by a demonstration of what I’d learned since our last session.
“Alright, up we get,” Mother said, then helped me to my hooves, fixing my balance against my cello. “Hoof here, hold your bow like this...”
Another little tug of magic helped me align my bow. “Now pull it straight across,” she continued. “Angling the bow, and even rotating it slightly, can change the sound. Now, again.”
Mother waited a couple of beats, occasionally tugging at my leg or hoof to correct posture. My right forehoof wasn’t quite long enough to fully pull the bow across the strings, so that’s where Mother focused the most. Not satisfied, Mother had me repeat the scale two or three times before taking up her own bow and joining in.
Mother’s playing was so beautiful. I was slow and stilted, struggling to pull the bow properly, to place my hoof on the strings properly. She was smooth, practiced, notes flowing from one to the other.
I watched, fascinated, as the music took her. She quickly deviated from the piece on the stand in front of us, precise notes slipping into something more instinctive. The guiding touch of her magic fell away, and I slowly stopped, watching Mother lose herself to the music.
She looked so beautiful. The beat was quickly dropped, improved, as Mother slipped from note to note, adding embellishment and trills and everything that I couldn’t do yet. She slowly swayed back and forth, somehow still managing to keep her balance.
Her eyes fluttered shut; the music crescendoed just in time to mask the gentle click of Father opening my door. He quietly moved next to me and we both watched, entranced, while my Mother played, off the hoof, something that would make many composers and lesser musicians cry.
I stared at her, easily recreating a picture in my mind. It was a similar day that made me interested in music, three years ago, watching Mother practice for her first solo concert after I was born. Of course, I couldn’t actually hold a cello then, but, as soon as I could, we headed to the store.
The final note faded into silence, helped along with a light, extra touch on the string. Mother opened her eyes to a gentle applause, and blushed. “Beautiful as always, love,” Father said. I nodded in agreement.
Mother looked at me, ears folding slightly down the middle. “I did it again, didn’t I?”
I nodded; it happened almost every time we practiced. Mother tended to get lost in her music, but I never complained. It was beautiful, inspiring. Besides, Father did too. Just stood in his study sometimes, waving that little conductor stick around to an imaginary audience.
“Dinner is ready whenever you two are,” Father said, then left the room. Mother and I packed our cellos - she took a pit stop to stow hers in the practice room, somewhere I’ve only been twice before - and we headed to the table.
Dinner was fast, as it normally was when Father cooks and so can’t torment Mother, and delicious. After I helped clean up, I scampered upstairs and back to my window nook. The frayed cushion squeaked as I sat down. For three months, freedom from everything other than cello practice and the annual family trip north to Manehatten and Grandma Serenade.
My body grew heavier, but not enough to convince me to actually go to bed. The first day of summer vacation is important and I was unwilling to let it end too quickly. One room over, I could just barely hear Mother begin to play her cello. I’d asked her to remove the soundproofing next to my room. I liked to listen.
My body jerked forward, forcing me awake to avoid hitting the window. Mother had stopped at some point, leaving the house silent but for the lingering remnants of the week’s storms.
A loud, last burst of rain woke me again. Down below, Father ran out into a carriage, probably going to a last-minute meeting for his orchestra.
I woke once more, to cold, my face pressed against the window. Mostly asleep, I crawled into my warm bed and passed out again.
The morning sunrise banished what was left of the storms. I rolled from bed and to my hooves, determined to finish practice early and convince Mother to take me to the park.
My stomach grumbled. Change of plans: breakfast first, then cello, then the park. I stumbled out of my room, still half asleep, and somehow made it down the stairs and into the kitchen. Mother glanced up from her spot in the study, smiling over her book. “Morning.”
“Mrnin,” I muttered, passing through the parlor and into the kitchen. Mother rose and followed, coming in halfway through my rustling through the cabinets. We both came through to the dining room, Mother with a cup of tea and her book, myself with a plate of toast and a bowl of cereal.
The silence in the dining room was absolute, broken only by my eating and Mother’s drinking. She’d likely already eaten breakfast, but she didn’t believe ponies should have to eat alone. Every bite of food dragged me more and more awake, and by the time the last crumb of toast is gone, I was ready to go.
Mother noticed and set down her book and tea. “So,” her voice was startling in the still house. “Big plans today?”
“I want to go to the park.”
Mother’s smile, along with her ears droop, “I was afraid you were going to say that...” I knew that voice, the ‘no’ voice. It wasn’t fair, the rain had stopped and everything!
I did my best to hide my disappointment though. If mother had to say no, she had a good reason.
“You need to practice first, of course, and I have some errands to run.”
“That’s not funny,” I huffed, pouting.
Mother rose and walked around the table, putting a hoof around me in a hug. “Yes it was, now go wash up. Aunt Rosin is going to be here soon.”
Obediently, I returned the hug and rose to my hooves. “Aunt Rosin? Is Father still not back?”
A soft gray glow enveloped Mother’s book and pulled it towards her. “No, he had a meeting for his upcoming show. Now, go wash up.”
At Mother’s gentle prodding, I left the room.and went to wash my face. Rosin was an old friend of my parents, an accomplished violinist, and proficient in multiple stringed instruments besides, and the bongos. Her daugher, Symphonia, was one of my few friends at school, but spent most of her summers out of Canterlot.
Water droplets dripped down my muzzle before I could dry it all. I then grabbed my brush and set off to find Mother. I found her in Father’s study, searching through a shelf of sheet music books.
Finding what she wanted, Mother turned. The brush was gently removed from my mouth with a flash of magic, and she smiled. “I suppose we have time,” she said, leading me through the house to the parlor. The brush gently pressed down my head, pulling all the tangles from sleep free.
The book of music floated into my vision and dropped into my waiting hooves. “Here,” Mother said, raking out another section of mane, “something to keep you occupied over the summer. Your Father had it printed specifically for you.”
Careful not to move my head, I pushed open the cover with my hoof. There, on the inside cover, I recognized Father’s writing.
To my darling Octavia. Mayhaps these pieces are too simple for you, but it will make a good start to a bright musical future. Make sure you know you can always find solace in what you can make with your own two hooves, magic or not.
We love you dearly,
Legato and Melody Philharmonica
My head whipped around, drawing an annoyed snort from Mother. She bonked my muzzle until I turned back around. The brush tangled back into my mane. “It’s a graduation present,”
“It was only third grade...” I muttered, carefully flipping through the book. Most of the first half I recognized as single pieces Mother and Miss Strings gave me, but the rest were all new to me.
I could already tell that my hair was brushed and straight, but Mother continued to run the brush through slowly, rhythmically, until a knock sounded at the door. Busy with my new book, I barely noticed as Mother set down the brush and stepped out to answer the door. A cry of, “hey, Mels!” finally drew my attention up.
Through the front door walked a golden unicorn, silky brown mane cropped short, ringing her face. A black strap wrapped around her barrel, holding a black case to her back. From behind Rosin, Mother smiled and left. “Heya, Octavia, whatcha got there?”
Rosin sat directly in front of me, down on the floor. I pushed the volume over, spinning it so she could read. “It’s a book of music that Father made for me.”
“Yeah, this looks like fun,” she said, eyes rapidly scanning the notes on the page. “I brought a viola, go get your cello, let’s play.”
“Oh... I-I don’t know. I’m not very good,” I sputtered.
Rosin scoffed. “So? We all start as not very good, the only way to get good is to do it.” She poked my cutie mark, making me yelp. “That fine treble clef right there means you’ve got the talent. You’re a Philharmonica, which means you’re stubborn enough to practice until you’re perfect.”
She skillfully swung the case from her back, popped the catch, and pulled the well-polished instrument out. “So go get your cello, let’s play.”
I tried to mutter another excuse, too embarrassed by my lack of coordination to play with one of the best concert soloists in Equestria, but she drowned me out with an excessively loud tuning session. Every time I thought she was done and tried to speak, I was drowned out by the rich sound of Rosin’s viola. Finally taking the hint, I trudged upstairs and returned with my cello and bow.
“Have you looked over any of this?” Rosin asked as I came back to the parlor. She had the book propped up on Mother’s chair, the ottoman pushed far enough back that we could both sit and still see the notes.
“I-I know some of the first ones, but Mother just gave me the book just a little while ago.” I sat next to Rosin on the ottoman, cello balanced against one wither, bow dangling from one hoof, the other resting on the neck, over the strings.
Nervous hooves plucked idly at cello strings as Rosin looked over the first hoofful of pieces in my new book. “Yeah, none of this is really jumping out at me,” she says with an audible pout. “Alright, let’s just go then.”
I cocked my head to one side. “What do you mean?”
“Just... play, y’know? No sheet music, no planning, just...” She ran her bow idly across the strings of her viola. “I’ll follow your lead.”
Rosin flipped the viola around, tucking the instrument under her chin, and effortlessly molded into perfect playing posture. The bow rested lightly against a string, held in the light golden glow of her magic. “After you, Principal Cellist.”
I swallowed, trying in vain to unstick the lump in my throat. I’d played with Mother before, but...
My bow dragged unevenly across the strings, drawing a horrible screech from the instrument. Rosin’s smile never faltered, she just nodded for me to start again. I did so, finally coaxing out a slow, steady note. It was too slow, again I struggled to fully draw the bow to complete a note, but pressed on. Without thinking, I began to recite the songs I’d learned in school over the last year, flipping to a new one whenever it felt right or I became bored.
After a few measures, Rosin’s viola joined in. Its higher note made a great counterpart. She never straggled more than a note or two behind. The fast, high notes helped to mask my choppy low ones, and I started to make fewer mistakes. Or just didn’t notice them.
Rosin got my attention, gently prodding me with a hoof. She then pointed to the book, open to a random page. “Play,” she muttered, barely loud enough to hear over our instruments.
I took a few moments to study the page. I’d never seen the song before, but notes are notes. I waited for a good lead-in and took it, my previous song and this new one seamlessly blending together. Rosin shifted as well, and now that we could both see what was coming, she was able to keep up much better, easily masking my choppy playing.
I focused intently on the book, frantically reading ahead of my playing. It was hard, and I made more than a few mistakes, but I didn’t care. It was fun, and, for just a moment, I felt more like Mother. Not exactly playing on nothing but feeling, but only a few steps away. At last we reached the last measure and finished it, the house fading back into silence.
“See kiddo,” Rosin whispered, gently setting her viola back in the case. “Improving already. Now go on, put your stuff away. Mels said I could take you to the park after practice, and I think that counts, don’t you?”
I was up and out of my seat long before she was done talking, cello balanced delicately on my back. I returned to the room just as fast, barely able to contain the urge to bounce. Rosin laughed and rose, viola already stowed in the case and placed in the corner of the parlor.
Walking to the door, she bumped me on the way past. “Come on, kiddo. Let’s go.”