As Octavia lapsed into near-unconsciousness due to Scoop’s relaxation methods, Scoop allowed a look of dread to come over his face. Reading another’s thoughts was easy; he could do that effortlessly. Seeing another person’s memories was quite different; it required you to give a piece of yourself to them for a while. It sounded simple at first, but Scoop had found it to be a painful experience.
Scoop felt more than heard the rushing of his own consciousness through a swirl of emotions and memories, and with that, he was falling rapidly down a tunnel of swirling colors, voices, tastes, smells, and textures. “Shoot!” Scoop exclaimed! “I forgot to explain the exit strategy.”
He had to think fast; there were only a couple more seconds between him and hitting the bottom of Octavia’s memory bank: her very first memory. Normally, this wouldn’t be an issue, but at the speed Scoop was travelling, slamming into the memory could rip it to shreds, leaving nothing but a void of scattered sensations.
“Octavia!” Scoop shouted! “Octavia, I need you to slow down! Coast through your memories to find the one you want! I’m in no hurry!”
Scoop heard nothing, and the memories continued to speed by. “Octavia, if you can hear me, you need to slow down! If I enter your memory at this speed, there is a serious danger of me tearing it from your mind! You wouldn’t be able to remember it anymore!”
“I’m trying!” a voice echoed back, distant and seeming to come from the bottom of the memory bank. “Hold on!”
Scoop felt himself begin to slow, but not by much. He was still speeding past so quickly that the mixed stimuli flowing through his senses were giving him a headache. He began to feel lightheaded and, losing his precarious balance, flipped over, his back to the bottom of the hole.
Realizing the position he was in, Scoop began to flail to regain his upright position, but it was no use. He was traveling headfirst down a shaft of memories so deep that time itself couldn’t possibly fill the cracks in between. “I hate this part,” said Scoop, just before he slammed headfirst into a hardwood floor.
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“Scoop...” he heard the distant voice say. “Scoop...are you okay?”
Scoop opened his eyes and pain flashed in his head. He clamped them back shut, groaning as his head pounded. Octavia had, apparently, seen him open his eyes.
“Ah, good! I was very worried there for a moment, but you seem to have pulled through alright. Get up; we’re here.”
Scoop opened his eyes again, this time forcing them to stay wide as the pain flashed again. As light blinded him, he began to use his other senses to get a feel for the world around him. He was laying on a rough surface, not solid enough to be concrete, stone, or marble, but not soft enough to be dirt or grass. Perhaps a rough-hewn wood floor? Reaching a hoof out, he brushed it across the surface of the floor. Yes, it was wood, ancient and solid by the feel. It had once been very smooth, but was worn to this state by many years of hard use.
He could smell must and other pungent odors. A family meal, eaten hours ago; a moist, earthy smell, possibly mud or fresh-cut grass; and the sterile, sharp smell of alcohol. Not drinking alcohol; there must have been some medical application.
As his vision cleared, he could see he was in a large room, furnished humbly in the same wood of which the floor consisted. Unlike the floor, the wood furniture had been sanded smooth time and again to remove splinters. A tall, sturdy table, more utilitarian than beautiful, was surrounded by five or so matching wooden chairs. On one end of the table was a highchair.
Scoop lifted his head off the floor and saw movement out of the corner of his eye. Turning to face the source, he heard a sigh of relief. “Oh, good. You seem to be moving about just fine. Get up this instant and tell me where we are! I haven’t the faintest idea of how to leave, in the even that we should need to, of course.”
Octavia stood before him, looking perplexed, excited, and...nervous? Scoop was normally a very good judge of ponies, but Octavia was hard one to read. Her elegant demeanor often foiled the attempts of the press to scrutinize the way she felt about things, and Scoop was the best of the best at seeing past her facade.
Rising onto his forelegs and pushing off the floor, the pain in Scoop’s head subsided, and he found he was able to move without discomfort. Octavia stood next to the table, huffing silently in frustration. He found it was necessary to calm her.
“You tell me, Octavia. It’s your memory, after all; if I’ve done everything right, it’s your first memory!”
Octavia looked surprised, then began to scrutinize the room. Her eyes widened almost to the size of saucers and she gasped. “Of course! I cannot believe I hadn’t recognized it! This is my parents’ home! This is where I grew up! And that means...”
Before she could finish, they were interrupted by a small voice, coming from the fore of the room. “Is mommy okay, Inky?”
Turning to search for the source of the voice, Scoop spotted a door at the far end of the room, next to which were two chairs, pushed up against the wall. In either chair sat a filly, one slightly older than the other. The one to the right was a dark gray-brown with a light gray mane and tail; the one to her left was clearly recognizable as a very young Octavia. It was her whose voice they had heard.
“Mommy is fine,” the elder pony said. “She’s just having a foal. That takes a long time.”
“She sounds like she’s hurting,” the young Octavia squeaked. “Let’s go help her.”
“We can’t help her, Tav. Daddy and the doctors are doing a good job. We just have to wait out here like Daddy said.”
Octavia then slumped back into her seat and began kicking her legs, causing the chair to bang against the wall. The door cracked open a bit and, in a hoarse whisper, one of the occupants shushed Octavia. Blushing in embarrassment, she straightened up in the chair again and folded her forelegs between her knees.
Scoop almost laughed at young Octavia’s antics, but the elder Octavia shot him a cold look. “I was three, Scoop. I most certainly didn’t know any better, and Inkette was not doing anything to alleviate my boredom. If I recall correctly...”
Again Octavia was cut off by her young self, who this time climbed off the chair and walked to a low bookshelf on the other side of the room. “Isn’t she going to see us?” the elder Octavia asked.
“Of course not,” Scoop assured her. “This isn’t time travel; all we’re doing is reliving your memories. They can’t touch us, see us, or hear us. We’re just omniscient observers.”
This seemed to relax Octavia, and she studied her young self closely, even daring to take a few steps towards where Inkette was still sitting. Noticing her sister’s movement, Inkette whispered harshly: “What are you doing, Tav? Daddy said to stay in the chair! I’m telling!”
Tav turned a cold stare on her sister, face tinged with a mixture of boredom and frustration. “I’m just getting my book!” she hissed. She pawed through the books on the shelf and her face cracked into a grin when she found the one she was looking for.
Taking the hard cover children’s book into her mouth, she trotted back across the room and climbed onto her chair. She folded the cover back and brushed a hoof across the title page. Scoop couldn’t see the page from where he was standing, but the elder Octavia squealed in excitement.
“It’s The Music Pony!” she gushed. “I haven’t seen that book in ages! My parents must still have it; it used to be my favorite book! It’s the reason I’m...”
“Shhhh!” Scoop cut her off; Octavia huffed indignantly. “Look!”
The young Octavia was looking down at the cover and back up at Inkette, studying her sister’s face. Inkette noticed Octavia’s imploring gaze. “No, Tav. Just be quiet.”
“But...” Octavia began; Inkette shushed her. “Inky, please. Just this once.”
“That’s what you said last time.”
“I know, but I promise this time! Just while we wait for the baby!”
Octavia had grown a little louder with this request, her voice slipping into the whiny tone so common among young fillies. Finding it easier to just read the book than to shush her sister again, Inkette sighed and her shoulders sagged.
“Fine. But you have to promise to be quiet the rest of the time if I read this. ‘Kay?”
Octavia smiled brightly and nodded rapidly. “Promise!” she said.
Inkette took the book and set it in her lap; Octavia scooted closer, snuggling into Inkette’s side. The elder Octavia moved to within a hair’s breadth of where her younger self sat, trying to gain a better view of the book. Scoop could tell that Octavia was trying to maintain her graceful air; even so, she was nearly buzzing with excitement.
“The Music Pony,” Inkette began. “By H. P. Hoofwell.”
She turned the cover page and dug into the story.
“There once was a magical pony. He traveled far and wide across the land. He pulled a cart behind him wherever he went. His cart was filled with musical instruments.” Another page turn. “Banjos, violins, guitars, mandolins, dulcimers, lumberjack pianos, piccolos, flutes, and all manner of musical contraption were his.” As she read off the list of instruments, Inkette pointed to the instruments on the page, getting into the story herself.
“What’s a dul-sim-ber?” said the young Octavia; the elder Octavia had to stifle a laugh, not wanting to spoil the mood.
Inkette giggled. She pointed to an oblong, guitar-like instrument with long strings and a narrow middle. “It’s played like a guitar, but it makes funny sounds!”
“Oh!” said Octavia, smiling brightly. “Okay, keep reading!”
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Scoop and Octavia watched as Inkette wove a tale of music, friendship, and a magic rooted firmly in the hands of earth ponies. Sure, pegasi and unicorns could learn music; in fact, some became quite proficient at it. Yet, earth ponies had a natural affinity for all musical, and many earth ponies could pluck out a tune on a guitar without ever having touched one before. It was a magic Scoop himself was quite proud of, he being an accomplished flautist.
The elder Octavia wiped tears from her eyes as the story came to a close. At several intervals, they had been interrupted as a quavering moan rent the air. Even Inkette, normally composed and sensible, had looked more and more worried each time they heard their mother’s cry. By the time the tale had come to a close, the young Octavia was nearly in hysterics.
“They’re hurting mommy, Inky! I hear them hurting mommy!”
Inkette hopped down from her chair. “Where are you going, Inkyyyyy?!?” squealed Octavia, clambering off her own chair and plunking down behind Inkette. “Don’t go! Let’s go help mommy!”
“Whaddya think I’m doing, Tav?” she queried, pounding on the door with a small hoof. “Daddy, is mommy okay?” she yelled.
The door creaked open and, for the first time, the young Octavia caught a glimpse of her father’s face. “Mommy’s fine, girls,” he said sternly. “Sit down and be quiet. If you make any noise, mommy will hurt worse.” He shut the door a little harder than he needed to, nearly catching Inkette’s nose in the crack.
Inkette’s face was a mask of conflicted emotions. If they stayed silent, mommy would keep hurting. If they made noise, mommy would hurt worse. A child’s drive to aid its parent finally won out against her curiosity, and Inkette looked into Octavia’s eyes. “We have to help mommy by being quiet,” Inkette whispered. “Daddy says mommy will hurt worse if we make too much noise.”
Octavia looked horrified, then nodded rapidly. “Okay!” she whispered hoarsely, turning and nearly hurling herself onto the chair.
At this point, the memory wavered. Scoop looked at the elder Octavia, who was sobbing at this point. She was trying desperately to compose herself, wiping her eyes on her foreleg, but the tears refused to stop as sobs wracked her body.
“So sorry,” she said, trying to smile. “I remember this...all of it. I don’t like the next part.”
“We can stop,” said Scoop. “I can pull out now. It will all be over.”
Octavia shook her head. “No. This memory will haunt me as long as I live. I can’t escape it by expelling you. Just...don’t put anything about this in the article, please.”
Scoop nodded as another scream split the air. A clattering sound came from the door, followed by the splashing of water into a pan. The voice of the doctor, a deep, gravelly baritone, thrummed for a few seconds. Then, the door creaked open and Octavia’s father’s face appeared again. This time, he was smiling...or, what could pass for a smile on his ordinarily stony features.
“Girls,” he said. “Come and see your new sister.”
The young Octavia’s eyes grew wide, and she squealed with excitement. “A sister, Inky!” she shouted. “We have a sis...”
“Shhhhhh!” whispered her father harshly. “You still have to be quiet! Little ponies don’t like a lot of noise!”
Octavia clapped her hands over her muzzle, still smiling brightly. She nodded rapidly and her father lifted her off the chair and set her down. She rushed through the door and into her parents’ room.
On one side of the bed stood the doctor, stethoscope around his neck. His mane was slicked back with copious amounts of mane-gel, supposedly to keep hair from falling into his work. The midwife stood to the other side, a large smile plastered onto her face.
“She’s a little...” said the midwife. “Unusual.”
Inkette, who had snuck past Octavia to the other side of the bed, laid a hoof on her mother’s foreleg. “Mommy...are you okay?”
Mrs. Pie weakly nodded her head, smiling faintly. “Mommy is fine, sweetie, and look!”
Octavia scurried around to the other side of the bed. “Awww,” cooed Inkette. “Tav, look!”
Placing her forelegs on the side of the bed, Octavia hoisted herself off the ground, balancing her back hooves on the bed frame. There in her mother’s legs, wrapped in a plush blanket, was a soft pink pony with a vibrant magenta main.
“Isn’t she cute?” Inkette cooed again. The young Octavia said nothing.
Slipping off the side of the bed, Octavia turned and seemed to be examining her back. Mr. Pie stood nearby, grinning down at the bundle in his wife’s arm. “What do you think, girls? Should we keep her?” he cracked, in a rare glimpse of good humor.
“Yes!” said Inkette. Still, Octavia was silent, now running a hoof through her mane.
“Octavia?” said Mr. Pie. “What do you think?”
The young Octavia looked up into her father’s eyes. Tears ran down her cheeks and her bottom lip quivered. She seemed on the verge of sobs.
Scoop noticed this and looked over his shoulder at the elder Octavia, who was loudly humming an orchestral piece. At first he figured it to be a nervous reaction, but it seemed forcefully loud...the puzzle pieces clicked into place. She didn’t want to hear her young self’s next words.
Mr. Pie’s smile had vanished and he bent his neck to see at his daughter’s eye level. “Octavia, what’s wrong?”
Octavia burst into a fit of tears and sobs, wailing loudly. Her father grabbed her and held her close. “Octavia! Stop this now! Tell me what’s wrong!”
The memory wavered again, and this time began to fade. The blackness at the end, much like the credits of a movie, began to roll across the surface of the artificial world, swallowing light and sound alike. The memory ended, but not before Scoop had heard Octavia’s wailed answer.
“I wish I had a pink coat!”
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Slamming back through the memories, hurtling upward through Octavia’s subconscious, Scoop heard the sobs of a distraught mare. Octavia’s entire psyche seemed to be permeated with grief, and he couldn’t figure out why.
The next thing he knew, he was back in the chair. Pulling his hooves from the sides of Octavia’s head, she collapsed onto her side, and Scoop saw that tears were streaming down her cheeks and soaking her chest.
Reflex took over and Scoop stood quickly, rushing to her side and gently lifting her upright. Octavia’s eyes opened, red and puffy. She wiped at them frantically, trying to regain her composure. “So sorry!” she sobbed. “You shouldn’t see me like this!”
Scoop nearly shook her. “Octavia, it’s okay! It’s a happy memory! Why does it bring you so much pain!”
Octavia was racked with sobs to the point that communication with her was impossible. Throwing professionalism to the wind (impartiality be damned!), Scoop wrapped Octavia in a warm embrace, immediately regretting the decision. He shouldn’t have...this was far to intimate...what if she didn’t...?
Scoop’s fears were quelled when Octavia returned the embrace, throwing her legs around Scoop’s shoulders and burying her face in his shoulder. She cried long and hard, soaking Scoop’s pelt with salty tears. Finally, her sobbing subsided, Octavia untangled herself and sat back on her haunches.
She said nothing for awhile, and Scoop was content to let her remain wordless. Shortly, she tried to explain herself. “I was so young, and yet...what kind of pony, upon seeing her filly sister, can only think about her own pelt?”
Scoop began to answer, but was cut off as Octavia pressed on.
“I was jealous! Not happy for my mother, not excited, but jealous! My first memory is of how jealous I was of Pinky’s coat! Can you believe it?”
“You were young...” Scoop began.
“I know that!” Octavia insisted sternly. “Youth is no excuse. My first memory is horrible...ruined by my selfishness!”
Scoop waited as Octavia’s sobs renewed, though this time they were much shorter. “Octavia, it’s a beautiful memory.”
“How can you say that?!?” Octavia cried.
“Sure, you were jealous. I would be too. Your pelt was so...common. You didn’t know where you fit. Your parents hadn’t been paying attention to you very much for months before the birth. And suddenly, here’s this new little filly with the most vibrant, unique coat you’ve ever seen! How could you not feel jealous?”
“It doesn’t...excuse...”
“It doesn’t have to be excused, Octavia! The rest of the memory is lovely! Your bond with Inkette is wonderful! You can remember her reading to you. I didn’t have any siblings to read to me; I didn’t learn to read until I was in foalergarten! My parents were always busy, and I didn’t make friends very easily. Here, you had this great relationship with your sister! You love each other so much!”
“But...I was...”
“And your concern for your mother! Your desire to help! That’s wonderful too! You were only three; how many three-year-olds do you know who are self aware enough to think of anypony but themselves? Huh? None! And it was your idea to help your mother! Sure, you weren’t all that successful, but it’s the thought that counts! Your mother would appreciate it if she could see this memory; I’m sure of it!”
Octavia chuckled quietly. “I guess it is a bit silly...to put so much pressure on my young self...”
“You were a wonderful filly, Octavia. So you were jealous; so what? No one blames you for it. Your father did it. Deep down, you know how much you loved that little filly, even through your jealousy.”
“How do you know that?” Octavia inquired.
“It’s one of my gifts. I can read your desires, your emotions, your deepest needs and wants. You loved Pinkamena, Octavia, from the minute she was born! How wonderful is that?”
Octavia smiled. “You are right. I did.” She cleared her throat and straitened her bow. Running her hooves through her mane, she settled back on her haunches again. Scoop sat back down in his chair, facing her again.
“Thank you, Scoop...for helping me see that memory in a different light. Maybe...having someone see all my memories isn’t such a bad thing.”
“Are you willing to continue?” Scoop said, checking the clock on the wall. “We’ve more than 45 minutes left...we weren’t under for that long.”
Octavia nodded. “Please. Though, as far as I can remember, the next few years weren’t all that exciting.”
“I want to know every detail,” Scoop said, extending his hooves again. Octavia rested her head between them, and Scoop began his soothing words again.
“Take us back again. What’s your next memory? Pull it out of the fog...a party...with your little sister...”
Continued in Part 3.