The return of the Pony of Shadows (although some of the villagers preffered an altogether more profane name too rude to repeat here) was certainly a worrying development, and meant that we were all painfully aware of the danger that the world was in. We also had to rebuild Hayseed Swamp and repair all the damage inflicted to the place, which was a lot. Pathways to rebuild, walls to put back up, and many other things needed fixing, in which I made sure to play my part in helping the villagers rebuild their shattered community. The fact I felt guilt over the whole mess may have played a factor in that, but I digress on that front.
A concern that hit me during this time was that I lacked a place to live myself. Whilst hardly the biggest of problems considering the circumstances in which we found ourselves, it was still enough of a worry for me that I asked Meadowbrook if, once we had completed repairs to the tree which she called home, I could stay for a short while whilst I found my bearings.
She stated I was welcome to stay as long as I wanted. I was stunned at the generosity of this gesture, and I agreed to lodge there whilst trying to figure out what to do. However, I didn't want to be simply seen as freeloading on her hospitality, and as a result I was quick to start to search for a line of employment.
I had been a musician in the past life, which seemed thousands of years ago now (even though it was just a few days). I wondered if searching for such a line of employment here would work. I noticed that amongst the possessions that had materialised in the room in which I lodged was a fiddle. I had been a guitarist, so I wasn't sure if I could play it, but having no fingers made plucking strings impossible. Gripping a bow, on the other hand, and holding up a fiddle proved to be no problem, as ponies had surprisingly good balance on their hind legs. Granted, they couldn't walk around like that, but it made playing instruments which required leaning back a lot easier, as otherwise I would have needed a chair.
It was one morning that I got the break I needed. I had joined Meadowbrook at breakfast (Wellspring, or whatever her name was, was off on business elsewhere in the State). I ate my way through some grits (which actually tasted quite nice, despite looking like a messy grey mush), and once I was done I decided to raise my voice. "Meadowbrook?" I asked.
She glanced up from her place. "Yes, Stygian?" she asked in return.
"I would like to thank you for your generosity in allowing me to stay here," I began, "but I am concerned that I may be simply freeloading on your hospitality. As a result, I wish to try and find a job so that I may bring some income of my own in and not simply subsist of off yours."
Meadowbrook nodded. "That's understandable. What were ya thinkin' of doin'?"
"I had an idea of something related to music," I said, "seeing as I can play the fiddle. I've still got some words I want to tweak, but I think I can put a set together."
"The Hayseed Bar and Smokehouse currently has a vacancy," Meadowbrook replied. "The former guy set off fer pastures new in Georgia, but Ah'm certain you'll fit in just fine. Now, what line were ya strugglin' with?"
I turned my music book round and showed it to her. "It's this one here," I said. "Gambol and totter till you're hotter than a- and I have no idea what to end the phrase with. As a matter of fact, I'm not sure it makes much sense at all."
Meadowbrook scanned over the entire text. "You've adapted the old tale of Hurricane gettin' drunk at the Traveller's Rest!" she exclaimed. "That tale's an old favourite of mine. Here's a suggestion for a word ta slot in; 'hatter'."
"As in a person who makes hats?" I asked. "Gambol and totter till you're hotter than a hatter. But that doesn't make much sense."
"Ah don't mean ta sound rude, Stygian," Meadowbrook replied, "but the rest of that bridge don't make much sense neither."
I resisted the urge to correct her grammar, given her dialect, and smiled. "Thanks for the help."
"No problem."
The Hayseed Bar and Smokehouse was absolutely packed. Then again, it was a Friday night, when most of the ponies would have a relaxing evening after a week hard at work toiling the fields, collecting things, and sailing past alligators who difted lazily by, staring at them with intense suspicion. I guess that the more that things change, the more that they stay the same, eh?
I trotted nervously onto stage and tapped gently on the microphone. "Bonsoir mesdames et messieurs. Comment vas-tu cette belle soirée?" I asked. (for those wondering, that means, "Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. How are you this fine evening?")
"Just speak in English," said a voice. "We all speak it anyways."
I nodded. "Well, good evening, ladies and gentlemen. How are you this fine evening?"
There was a roar of approval from the crowd.
"Thank you. I am Stygian, the new musician and performer who will be performing here for a little while. I have a number of different tunes for tonight, but I thought we should start with this one. It's one I've written myself, about an old piece of folklore from the foundation of Equestria, the Tale of the Traveller's Rest. I hope you enjoy it."
I glanced to the backing group, and then to Meadowbrook, who was seated at a table facing the stage. She nodded approvingly, and with a smile. She'd come along to support me, and also to potentially dispell any unwanted comments from the Earth ponies here about unicorns.
I raised my fiddle and began to play, my voice quivering a bit as I started.
"There's an inn of old renown where they brew a beer so brown
Hurricane came rolling down the hill one Wodnsday night to drink his fill!
"On a three-stringed cello there played the Owner's pat so fair
The hornèd cow that night was seen to dance a jig upon the green;
Called by the fiddle to the middle of the muddle, where the cow with a caper sent the small dog squealing;
Hurricane in a fuddle went to huddle by the griddle, but he slipped in a puddle and the world went reeling!
"Downsides went up- hey! Outsides went wide!
As the fiddle played a twiddle and Hurricane slept till Sonnertag!
Upsides went west- hey! Broadsides went boom!
With a twiddle on the fiddle in the middle by the griddle and Hurricane slept till Sonnertag!"
The floor abruptly erupted in dancing as we continued playing. So we started the next section.
"Mare from off the dresser pranced, found a colt and gaily danced!
Ponies neighed and champed their bits, for Emperor Hurricane had lost his wits!
Well, cow jumped over, dog barked wild;
Panzy lay prone and sweetly smiled!
Puddinghead cried 'Play faster, Pat!'
Because we all want to dance like that!"
"Gambol and totter till you're hotter than a hatter, and you spin all akimbo like a windmill flailing!
Whirl with a clatter till you scatter every cotter, and the strings start a-pinging as the world goes sailing!"
"Downsides go up- hey! Outsides go wide!
You can clatter with your platter, but Hurricane slept till Sonnabend!
Upsides go west- hey! Broadsides go boom
With a batter and a clatter you can shatter every platter, But Hurricane slept till Sonnabend!"
It was clear that the crowd were so into it that something had to be improvised. "Call and response!" I called to the band, and the accordion played a scale to wake everybody up.
"Fi- fo- fiddle- diddle!
Fi- fo- fiddle- diddle!
Hey- yey- yey- yey- oh- ho!
Hey- yey- yey- yey- oh- ho!
Hey- hey- din- gen- do!
Hey- hey- din- geli- do!
Hoo- rye- and- hott- a- cott- a ho!
Hoo- rye- and- hott- a-c ott- a ho ho!
Hott- a- cott- a- hotta- ko!
Hott- a- cott- a- ko- cott- a- ko- ho!
Fi- fo- fiddle- diddle -hi- ho!
Fi- fo- fiddle- diddle- hi- ho!
Ho fiddlee- ding- galli- do!
Ho fiddlee- ding- galli- do
Hoo- rye- hoo- rye oops- oops- ay!
Hoo- rye- hoo- rye oops- oops- ay!
Hotta- cotta- hotta- cotta- mi- fo- fo!
Hotta- cotta- hotta- cotta- mi- fo- fo!
Hotta- cotta- hotta- cotta- hotta- cotta- hotta- cotta- hotta- cotta- hotta- cotta- mi- fo- fo!!"
Then we launched into the final repeat of the chorus.
"Downsides go up- hey! Outsides go wide
With a twiddle on the fiddle in the middle by the griddle
but Hurricane slept till Sonnabend!
Upsides go west- hey! Broadsides go boom! With a batter and a clatter
You can shatter every platter but Hurricane slept till Sonnabend!"
Safe to say, the crowd loved it. I hopped off the stage to have a quick drink to restore my spirits. "You were great!" called a cajun pony with a massive beard. "Ah hope you intend ta stay fer longer!"
"Thank you," I replied. "Perhaps Earth ponies aren't as fiercely territorial as I thought."
Just then, the door opened, and Meadowbrook had trotted over to greet whoever was entering. I decided to go look myself, and gasped when I saw an old friend enter the building. He was blue, with a wild mane of orange hair, and was oddly scrawny.
The individual looked around inside. "Well," he said, in a thick Scottish accent, "I've arrived. Am I still in time for a drink?"