Chapter Nine
The Instrument (Or, Tales Makes a Run For It)
I read this story a long time ago. It happens in the City of Artists, where all the greatest craftsponies lived. Every buildings was designed by the best architects and built by the best masons. Every stitch of clothing was hand-made by the greatest tailors ever to walk the face of the earth, all made in the best possible taste. And it wasn’t just craftsponies who called the city home, there were great poets, great actors, (“Great storytellers too, presumably,” she said, nodding to Tales, who seethed quietly.) and, of course, great musicians. The greatest musicians of all were the Tune family. There was father Toe-Tappin’, mother Soft, daughter Sweet and the son, Jazzy.
The mother, father and sister were all brilliant musicians, naturally, and would play at all the greatest occasions. All the great society balls, soirees, box socials, and the like, when everypony dressed in their finery to let their manes down (“Not literally, of course, they spent a fortune getting their hair up, but you get the idea.”). The family all had cutie marks of music, of notes and of instruments, but Jazzy had no such luck. His flank remained blank, no matter what his parents tried. They gave him lessons, they tutored him in musical theory and musical practice, but despite their best efforts, they had no luck.
In fact, they had worse than no luck. Jazzy wasn’t just bad at music, he was downright awful. Guitars de-tuned whenever he went near them, piano strings snapped and violins screeched before he so much as picked them up. It was clear that Jazzy would never become a great musician, or even a good musician. At this rate, he’d never be any kind of musician at all.
His parents shook their heads and awaited the day when it all fell into place for him, but that day never came. They had to face the fact that their son would never play with them. With great regret, they had him apprenticed to one of the city’s carpenters. Jazzy went, albeit reluctantly, and became a reasonably successful carpenter. Not the best, since this was the City of Artists and the bar was always set high, but he was still good enough.
So, time passed, and Jazzy might have stayed a carpenter if it hadn’t been for one thing. You see, in the City of Artists, there were always disputes over who was really the best. The tailors like Stitching Time and Golden Fleece, the jewellers like Get-DeBeers-In, the architects, the masons, the carpenters and, of course the musicians were always at each other’s throats, never content in being good. They always wanted to be the best. So naturally, they always argued about it. In an attempt to end the quarreling and bickering, Princess Celestia announced there was to be a grand competition of all the artists, to decide exactly who would be the best.
Now, when Jazzy heard about this, he was crestfallen, because he knew he’d have no place in it. His family would be performing as their band without him, and while he was a good carpenter, there was no way he’d be able to show his face at the competition.
So instead, he went out into the woods that bordered the city with his guitar on his back. He mightn’t be able to use it, but he liked the sentimental value. And in the woods, when no one was around, he’d play it and tell himself that, no matter what, he’d get a cutie mark in music one day.
He was just getting to the end of murdering one tune, when he was distracted by a rustling in the shrubbery. Curious, he brushed it aside and saw... well, what did he see but two little pegasus ponies, neither taller than a knitting needle, with beautiful gossamer wings. They were both smiling at him.
“‘Ullo, Jazzy,” said one.
“Good afternoon,” Jazzy replied, always polite to a fault.
The little ponies giggled. “You play the guitar, don’ you?” said the other.
“Um, yes,” he said, shyly. “Not very well, though.”
“Dun’ matter,” said the first, “'ow’d you like to come and perform for our king?”
Jazzy wanted to say no, but to his horror, found himself saying, “Of course.”
(Tales couldn’t help but sympathise.)
“Great! Follow us, then.”
The little ponies took off, Jazzy close behind. They flew this way and that through the woods, until they reached a tall tree, The two little ponies flew into a hole under one of the big, rugged roots.
“Down here, mate!” one shouted, just before he vanished.
Jazzy glanced about, a little puzzled. The hole looked just about big enough for him to fit in, so he squeezed himself through, pulling his guitar behind. He crawled down through that hole until he saw light at the end of it. Finally, he came out in a grand chamber.
Now, Jazzy had grown up in the City of Artists. He was used to opulence and grandeur, but even he was surprised by the beauty of this room. He hadn’t have expected much from a party at the bottom of a rabbit hole, but he was in for a surprise.
The ceiling reached high over his head, a great vaulted roof with tall, stained glass windows. Ponies swanned this way and that in long, flowing gowns and fine suits. They were years out of fashion (That had always struck Rarity as odd) but here they looked just right. And they were dancing, eating, drinking and laughing together, without a care in the world. At the far end of the room, a big rotund unicorn with a red, bushy beard was seated in a high throne, looking like a hot-air balloon in his finery. When Jazzy entered, he stood and gestured him to come.
“Ah! The entertainment!” he said, shaking the room with his deep, booming voice. “You’ve come rather early, I’m afraid. The music and the dancing will come at the end of the proceedings, so until then you can go about your business. Eat! Drink! Be merry!”
Jazzy thanked him and bowed. He went to the buffet, where there was a fabulous spread of food and drink. Naturally, he went for the drink to drown his fears. Performing in front of such a crowd seemed unthinkable! He knew as well as anyone that he couldn’t play so much as a chord without causing physical pain (Gosh, he was thinking, wasn’t this good wine?). He pondered how he could escape it, moving on to the food. It had been a while since he’d last eaten, and the food all looked rather good.
He watched the ponies pass him by, and noted they all seemed... off, somehow. As though there was some unacknowledged way ponies should be, and they all differed from it in a way you sensed more than saw. Jazzy watched them carefully, wondering just where in Equestria he was.
He didn’t have long to wonder before the big chap in the throne stood and threw a hoof up for silence.
“Friends! It’s been a fantastic night, hasn’t it?”
Night? thought Jazzy. It was only one o’clock in the afternoon when he’d last checked.
“Now, I hope you all brought your hooves for dancing, ‘cause we’ve got none other than this guy,” he said, gesturing to Jazzy, who found himself cast suddenly into a spotlight, “who will delight us all with tunes from his homeland, won’t he?”
Jazzy was about to protest, but something in the unicorn’s tone made him reconsider. He levitated his guitar-
(“Oh, yes, he was a unicorn, did I not mention it?” Rarity blurted. Tales winced on her behalf.)
...And started to play. He gritted his teeth and dropped his ears, all too ready to face the jeers and protests of his audience, but instead, he heard music. Beautiful, and lilting. He played, or rather found himself playing, a gentle waltz. All the ponies present took partners and started dancing, but Jazzy paid it no heed. He simply focused on playing, astonished at this change.
After the waltz, he played a polka, then something wilder still, until he was barely thinking of what to play and just played. Around him, the ponies danced like the floor was on fire, reaching fever pitch. The noise, the movement, it was all a blur, and Jazzy saw as those ponies shifted, into something part pony, part something else entirely, things of unspeakable beauty and grace.
And then, all of a sudden, it ended. Jazzy’s music came to a natural stop, and the dancers slowed and went still, now all definitely ponies (and all looking like they had never been anything else). Jazzy panted, and dropped to the floor, his guitar clattering beside him. Across the dance floor, from the throne came a unicorn stallion, slate-grey with black beady eyes. He was smiling broadly.
“Thank you, Jazzy,” he said, bowing his head. He spoke with a gentle, Connemaran accent.
“H-how?” was all Jazzy could think so say.
“You drank our drink and ate our food,” he said, simply. “We find that it helps ponies really shine.”
“Who... who are you?”
The stallion’s smile didn’t falter. “We’re the grey folk, the Seelie, the Flitterponies. We are the Other Guys,” said the stallion, with a dismissive gesture. “But enough about us! We haven’t discussed your payment!”
“Payment?”
“Yes, for services rendered!” said the stallion, slapping Jazzy on the back. “What about a new instrument?”
“A new instrument...?” said Jazzy, breathlessly. “But, I’m no good, I’m a terrible musician!”
The grey pony chuckled. “Your flank says otherwise.”
Jazzy looked down, and where before he’d been blank, there were now three musical notes on his side. His mouth opened and shut with shock. The grey stallion just kept smiling.
“Now, about that instrument...”
And like that, one was brought forward by two grey pegasus. To call it merely a guitar would be to insult it. Never before and never since would there be a more beautiful and perfect instrument. It wasn’t a guitar, so much as the essence of a guitar, distilled. Its lines were sleek and straight, a mighty V of dark, varnished mahogany. Jazzy took it gratefully.
“Thank you,” he said, staring at his instrument. With something like this, he could become a truly great musician, worthy of the name of Tune. Then, he remembered. The competition! His family! If there was anywhere he needed to be, he needed to be there.
He coughed politely and turned to the grey stallion. “If you’ll excuse me, I have somewhere to be.”
The stallion nodded and gestured to the exit. Jazzy left the ballroom, went back up the tunnel, guitar strapped to his side. He came up into the forest again, under a clear blue afternoon sky, and set off at a gallop for the city.
In the City Hall, the competition was is full swing. The architects had presented their offerings, the bakers had made theirs, as had the carpenters. The Princess herself was watching proceedings, seated at the head of the hall. In front of her, artists queued for their chance to show their greatness, and slowly, they worked their way through
Soon enough, they had reached the musicians, and this being the City of Artists the competition was very tough. The Tune family were feeling a little uncertain at this point, a little worried that they mightn’t succeed. More than a little, in fact. They were terrified. Perhaps it wasn’t such a good idea to put their reputations on the line and be rated alongside every other musician. They all seemed so much better.
They had no time to doubt, however. They were called up to perform. Toe-Tappin’ was on saxophone, Soft was on double bass and Sweet was on drums. They made eye contact and tried to calm each other. They'd rehearsed endlessly together for this moment, but they couldn't help but allay the feeling something was missing. All eyes were on them, and they were just about to start, when the doors at the far end of the hall flew open, and Jazzy entered. He was carrying what looked to everyone like half a guitar.
He walked straight up to his family, and hopped up on to the stage. There was an outburst from the queue, consternation as musicians contended this late arrival, when Jazzy levitated his guitar and strummed it. The notes rang out loud and clear, and hung in the air, humming for a moment. That silenced any complaints. And then, just like that, they burst into song.
They played Bahrns, they played Marezart, they played their own tunes, and when they ran out, they played whatever came to them. Through it all, Jazzy’s guitar screamed, weaving the song together as they played to the beat of Sweet’s drums. When they finished, the silence was overpowering. The assembled artists, even though they were a cut-throat and jealous lot, applauded. The other musicians got up and left, knowing when they were beaten. And Princess Celestia approached them, gliding down from her podium.
“Well, I think we have our winner,” she said, smiling broadly. “Congratulations.”
He stepped up on to the stage and shook their hooves in turn. When she reached Jazzy, her smile became more... curious.
“May I see your guitar?” she said, pleasantly.
He levitated it to her and she took it in her hooves, turning it over, examining it. After a moment, she smiled and passed it back to Jazzy.
“It’s a good instrument,” she said. “A rare thing for a pony to possess.”
Jazzy stayed silent, and simply nodded.
So, the Tunes were officially recognised as the greatest musicians in the entire city, Jazzy got his mark in music, and they all lived well and happy for the rest of their days.
* * *
“...now I don’t know how true that is, but I know for a fact that there’s a funny-looking guitar in the Canterlot museum, and they all say it came from the City of Artists. So make of that what you will.”
Tales stamped the ground in applause with everypony else. Inside, he was just... tired.
“Right, everypony,” he said, brightly, because if nothing else, being a storyteller meant you could act. “I think now would be a good time to have an interval.”
“Oh yes!” shouted the Pink Devil. “We can all go to Sugarcube Corner!”
There was a universal cry of agreement. Well, of course, Tales thought. It wasn’t a proper show without someone desperately advertising something. The pink one led the audience off to wherever. Purple and White followed on, chatting excitedly, leaving Tales alone.
He leaned back against the fountain and stuck his head in and didn’t take it out until he was running out of air. Then he swept his head back out and slumped down, dripping water.
Okay, now he felt better. He fished his bowler hat out of the foutain and shook it out.
Well, Ponyville seemed like a nice enough town. Large green spaces, nice architecture, pleasant community, and he had to leave immediately. He was confused, tired and out of time. They could do without him now. He’d started them off and they’d taken matters into their own hooves, telling stories for themselves. He told himself he’d shown Pinko all he needed to show her, and to be honest, things had turned out as well as could be expected. Right?
He got up and went. After all, he thought as he walked through the park, that was only the plan, wasn’t it? Show them proper storytelling, and leave. Simple as anything, and they seemed to have picked it up pretty quick. It was past sunset now, but the summer sun hung just behind the hills and lit the horizon faintly. Tales walked through the town, lost in his thoughts. He barely heard a gale of laughter behind him.
He was just setting out on the long road to the coast, a noise behind him, pierced his thoughts. It sounded like a spring twanging. Curious, he turned and saw...Oh god no.
The Pink One, the Pink Devil, the Terror From Twenty-Thousand Leagues Under The Candy Store was bouncing after him. Her expression was one of vapid, vacuous happiness. She’d ask him to keep telling. She’d ask him not to leave, and he’d have a hard time saying no. She’d want a reason, and he’d be entirely without one. Tales let his legs think for him, and he ran.
He ran like he’d never run before. He ran until his lungs hurt, then he trotted until his legs ached too. That didn’t faze him much though, truth be told. He knew he had to escape. He didn’t stop running until he was over the bridge and a good half-mile out of town. He collapsed by the roadside, panting. He lay for a moment to catch his breath. He could probably make it to another town tonight. Some other small farming burg perhaps. Bargain a few stories for a bed, maybe. He’d be alright. Keep moving was the important thing.
He went to get up, and a helping hoof was offered. He took it gladly and hauled himself up, only to find himself face to face with...
Oh no.
He sighed, defeated. “What do you want?”
“Well I was gonna tell you that we’d all gone into Sugarcube Corner and you’d got us thinking and we’d all started telling stories and it was all really fun ‘cause there’s cake and coffee and tea and stuff there, so we were all having fun and it turned out Ditzy Doo knows all forty-six verses of Tam Lin and Blossomforth was telling us a pegasus epic about the Trotjan War and they just go on and on, and I thought it was a shame that you weren’t there, so I went to look for you ‘cause I thought ‘gee what a shame that our storyteller isn’t here while we’re, y’know, telling stories', and I know that someone like you would be able to get Fluttershy to tell a story, ‘cause she’s so shy, and we’re taking it in turns and oh wouldn’t you please please please come please?”
She was grinning so broadly that Tales was entirely without a clever simile. He thought to say no, he thought to protest, and he definitely thought to tell this filly to shut the hell up and leave him alone. He had better things to do, he had to get to Connemara for the gathering. He couldn’t afford to spend any more time here.
But... what was he if not a storyteller? Maybe... maybe he’d learn some new stories to tell at Connemara to show Loose Oats and Knell Phoenix. Maybe if he just made a short detour.
So, against his better judgement, he said, “Yes.”