Her Song of Jubilation

by Impossible Numbers

Svengallop: Bronze Muck

“And this evening, ladies and gentlecolts, ladies and gentlecolts,” the announcer yelled through the microphone, “the All-Equestria Rodeo Round Robin kicks off with a celebrated country classic by the incomparably, incredibly, inconceivably talented… Counteeeeeeeeeesssssssssssssss Coloratuuuuuuuuurrrrrrrrrraaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa!”

It was one month later, and still the mere memory of the words raced through her blood, pumped through her heart, and had her cantering faster in the wheel before she realized what was happening. A stumble kicked and lashed her back into the present. She slowed to a trot again and groaned.

Behind her, the stares of a dozen colleagues burned. She could feel the heat peeling the skin from the back of her head. Aches ran up and down her hooves, and she struggled to keep her eyes open. Even they felt like they were on fire.

“Hold it! HOLD it!” The voice cracked like a whip over the mechanical hubbub. Wooden gears clickety-clacked to a halt. The humming conveyor belt eased to a stop. As though prompted by the pause, Coloratura’s legs slowed, snatched their chance, and braced her heaving torso against the stopping wheel’s insides while she sucked in and forced out each breath.

When she glanced up, Cherry Jubilee’s low lids were looking down on her. It was hard to tell if they were stern, indifferent, or just sleepy. The mare’s mouth was carefully neutral.

“Shill?” Jubilee said to a stallion over her shoulder. “Would you mind takin’ over the treadmill for a mo? I gotta reschedule one or two things with Miss ‘Tura firs’.”

One of the scrawnier stallions saluted and hopped forwards. Straightening herself up as much as she could, Coloratura hopped off the machine and bounced on the planks. Once more, the gears clicked together, the belt hummed back into life, and the mechanical ambience relaxed muscles across the plantation workroom. Cherry Jubilee led the way into the corridor, through a square prism of endless timber and doorways to more workrooms and more mechanical melodies.

I’ve done it now, she thought with a private groan. “Reschedule one or two things”. That’s code for something bad. I’m going to get kicked out, and just when I was settling in too.

Even she winced at the lie. Settling in was exactly what she hadn’t done. It had started with her first night on the job – no, it had started even before that, back when the announcer’s amplified words had summoned her out of the tunnel and into the world of harsh lights and confusing chatter.

The ponies in the front row had whispered, in the special carrying whisper of the brazenly unthinking, “Who’s this Countess what’s-her-face? She ain’t no country singer.” And that had stung even more, because she had scanned every face through the blinding haze and listened to every voice through the deafening babble, and Applejack had not been there. She’d probably never been there.

Well, she’d shown them. The Countess had opened her mouth, and it was as if her old manager had never left. The hauteur, the airy breeziness, the cold choreography: all of it had possessed her like a demon. Yet she’d been dressed like Rara. It must have been Rara who was singing. Her cutie mark had shone as it always did when the right note hit the right place at the right time.

Country music had fallen to her.

She’d belted out the old heart-warmer, “I Made New Friends (But Kept The Old)” as though she’d personally lived it. Got the magic. Got the music. They were only two letters apart. The spotlights had been outshone. The irritating talk had faded away while her voice squeezed their hearts and drew tears. They gave her a standing ovation.

And then the rodeo had started, and she was just the appetizer. No one even remembered her name. The only newspaper columnist who’d mentioned her at all had called her “The Country Tourer”.

Cherry Jubilee turned left into a stockroom. Within the crescent of crates stacked up to the ceiling two storeys above, there was just enough room for the two ponies if they didn’t mind talking into each other’s nostrils. Coloratura tried not to sneeze; her boss always wore the overpowering musk she inexplicably called Pomace Perfume.

Coloratura tried to meet her half-lidded eye, and found she simply couldn’t. It was easier to stare at her neckerchief.

“Dear ol’ Rara,” said Cherry Jubilee softly. “I know what this is about. An’ I really don’t blame you. Tain’t easy to bounce back from somethin’ like that, I get it. But you know why I asked you to step outta that machine, doncha?”

“This is about the late nights, isn’t it?” Coloratura mumbled to the neck.

To her surprise, Cherry Jubilee reached across and gently placed a hoof on her shoulder. “Yes it is. So you know what I gotta say, right?”

Ice crystallized through her chest, spiking through her spine and neck to prick the inside of her skull. There was no way in heck she was giving up the nights. They were hers. No other time, not even under a boss who passed around baked treats and asked after their kin, allowed Rara to be Rara.

“I am grateful,” she insisted. “Of course I’m grateful. I don’t mean you any kind of harm whatsoever. I could never do that to you, after all you’ve done for me.”

“I know, sugar. Don’t worry. This ain’t a bawlin’-out, you hear? There’s more to life than makin’ a buck or even to runnin’ a good business for everyone. I ain’t the pony to deny you your problems.”

But I’m working badly, Coloratura thought, and the ice cracked. That’s what it comes down to. If you let me go on, I’m going to make you lose some of your important income, or worse. I could cause an accident. I know all this! I know! Please don’t make me hear it. I don’t need to hear it, honest.

Cherry Jubilee sat down on the planks, and to Coloratura’s shame she couldn’t ignore the slight sag of the old boards. “It’s jus’ I’m not entirely the pony to solve them, neither. And what with all the other guys and gals I need to look after, that don’t leave me with many options.”

Options. There hadn’t been many of those after the rodeo disaster. Her old manager had been in the newspapers practically daily, in photographs with bright young stars amid smiling faces that had no idea what was in store for them. One morning, she’d even tried to warn Joy Denim about that bloodsucker, galloping down avenues and into the offices, past a protesting receptionist and right into the waiting hooves of a dozen bodyguards in suits and shades. Svengallop had come down himself to see what the hubbub was, and even dismissed the bodyguards when he’d seen her.

“Well, well,” he said, turning up his lispy, mocking voice. “If it isn’t my ex-Countess come crawling back with an apology.”

“I’m not your Countess, Svengallop, and I’m not apologizing for anything. I’m here to warn you: I know who you are and what you are, and if you even think of using Joy Denim the way you’ve used me, then I’ll –”

“Calm down, kiddo! Yeesh, you sound like my ex-girlfriend. Listen,” he continued, patting his expertly twisted tie and his spotless lapels while she stood there in a cast-off dress from the Charity Kindheart collection, “what I choose to do with my new client is no concern of yours. I’m going to make her the biggest thing since Sapphire Shores’ Comeback Tour, and I’m going to do it for the good of the pop world, not for some bleeding-heart charity with more bubble than brains.”

Coloratura laughed coldly. “Not if I can help it! I’m going straight to Buried Lede’s office with this. When everyone finds out what you were doing behind my back, there won’t be a decent pony in the city who’ll look twice at you.”

What had hurt the most was the way he sighed at her. The pitying look in his eye, the way he smiled as though at a child…

“Well, you see, there’s the problem,” he said slowly and clearly. “Decent ponies don’t last long in the big city. Anyone else would chew Joy Denim up and spit out her bones. I just skim a bit of cream off the top of her morning coffee, and in return I make sure she’s not wasting her time with freeloaders and incompetents.”

“Oh? Is that what you call it when you threaten to cancel a show because you’re not getting pampered? You turned me into a copy of you, into what you thought was what the city really wanted. You were so busy shaping my events and my interests that you never stopped to think what I really wanted, what I had to offer other than the Countess image.”

“And it worked, didn’t it?”

She almost wanted to hit him, which shocked her out of her anger. Never before in her entire life had her veins coursed with so much venom. Not once had she seen another pony as anything other than… well, a pony, a living being with thoughts and feelings of their own, even if they didn’t reveal them to her. She just saw him as something to hurt.

It scared her into silence.

“Listen, ‘Rara’, before you get yourself into trouble. If I didn’t look after her interests and keep an eye on the fashion scene, someone else would. And darling, if you think I’m the worst the city has to offer, then you’ve been living in a cave all your life. Why, six of Sapphire’s managers were arrested for laundering money, and three were involved in scandals too sordid for your pretty little ears to hear. I kept a clean image for both of us and I’m pretty sure I never spent a cent without you knowing about it and agreeing with it. So go ahead, ‘Rara’. Ruin Joy Denim’s life for some petty payback. What say you? My business-savvy realism versus your go-nowhere idealism? Shout it to the rooftops. I’ll be waiting for the non-existent tomatoes to fly.”

He’d been right.

The reporter, Buried Lede, had told both sides of the story. Oh, Svengallop had been bald-faced when it came time to give his interview. He’d told the reporter exactly what he’d said to her, almost word-for-word, right there in black and white. It should have made him the most hated pony in the city, she was sure of it.

Joy Denim was number one for the entire week. There was talk of a pan-Equestrian tour in the works, six exclusive merchandising contracts, and eight high-profile charity events graced by none other than Canterlot socialite Fancypants himself.

She’d thrown down the newspaper in disgust. The words were carved into her mind no matter how much she shook her head: “Green-Eyed Ex-Star Goes Svengalloping Her Mouth Off”.

It was a while before she felt the tears crackling down her cheeks, and the crates and the reassuring smile of Cherry Jubilee swam back into her world.

Already on fire, her eyes seemed to melt, everything sinking and oozing into a dank pit of despair. Warm limbs closed around her temples. She fought not to let anything rise out of her twisted chest.

“I’m fine,” she lied with a gasp, rubbing her eyes and pushing the limbs back in the process. “Just really, really tired. That’s all.”

“I told you, sugar,” said Cherry Jubilee with a chuckle, “I ain’t gonna go bawlin’ you out. You think you’re the first I’ve seen who’s hit rock bottom? Why the number of big names I’ve had through here would read like a Who’s Who of Equestria’s greatest through the ages. Heck, I used to be a rodeo star myself before I came back to the plantation. Don’t think for a second you’re on your own here, OK?”

Coloratura smiled despite the streaking mess she’d made of her face. “It won’t happen again, I promise. I’ll take an early night tonight. You’ll find me fresh as a daisy tomorrow morning.”

“Good gal. There ain’t nothin’ wrong with the beddin’, is there? I know some of you city ponies like it soft as an eider’s backside. Jus’ say the word. I’ll have it changed.”

Crates rattled when she backed into them. Finally, she met Cherry Jubilee’s gaze, and for a second it seemed oddly familiar to her.

“No no no!” she spluttered. “Not at all! In fact, your beds are the best I’ve ever slept in.”

Cherry Jubilee smirked at her. “Come now, you don’t have to lay it on thick. I do my best, but they’re basically high-falutin’ log cabins, sugar. There’s hundreds of the things in this backwater. It’s about as humble as you can get without bein’ dirt poor.”

“It’s fine, really. Don’t put yourself out. I just… need an early night, that’s all. Let me go back to the sorting room. I’ll give it another go!”

Emphatically, she swung her leg in a broad gesture. Yelping, she drew back as the strike throbbed against her cannon and the crates threatened to tip over.

Moving faster than a mare her age should have managed, Cherry Jubilee took the jutting edges two at a time. Coloratura blinked, and the boss was frozen in the act of splaying limbs against the topmost crate, which teetered right on the edge… and then fell back with a thud.

Both of them sighed with relief.

Cherry Jubilee hopped down onto a lower edge, and it was all Coloratura could do not to applaud. The flip here, the pirouette there, the graceful upright landing on the planks which somehow barely groaned at all: it all struck her as a performance she’d have killed to see choreographed in her own show. Only when her boss fell back onto all fours did she suddenly look her “mature” self again.

“You’re not gonna get much done if you’re that mis-coordinated,” she said grimly, dusting off her forelegs. “Get a goshdarned nap already. You can swap with Old Colt Casher for the evenin’ shift, an’ then make it up in overtime next week. Jus’ get that sleepin’ regime whipped into shape firs’, OK?”

Coloratura’s smile disappeared down her throat through sheer embarrassment. However, she’d already tested her own physical limits – she could feel her legs cramping as she stood there – so with barely a nod she turned around and strode past the crates and through the pine frame, which her rump ever-so-slightly bounced off.

Her legs took her to the canteen, through which would be the exit to the pathway leading to the accommodation halls. Then she stopped, and she stared across the aisles of simple stools and long tables, and she grinned and heard the whoop of workers and the strum of the banjo from days ago. She could even see the high seat where Cherry Jubilee had cradled the microphone and announced karaoke night.

They’d had no karaoke at the cafeteria. Nowhere for her there.

It had been in Canterlot, and Cinnamon Chai had offered her another Danish swirl. That had confused her until it turned out Chai was a fan of her work.

She didn’t believe the tripe in the paper either. But she didn’t know how to help her.

So Coloratura turned back to her icing-encrusted spiral and turned it over and over in her hooves. Light and sweet on one side, a culinary temptation with a cherry on top. Dull and plain on the other, something you put up with to get to the good stuff.

“Svengallop was right,” she mumbled, too sugar-addled and sluggish to properly feel the shock this should have made. “It’s either his beloved Countess of Frauds, or a Rara no one cares about.”

And she did care about the Countess. It was what Svengallop had given her, but everyone loved the Countess. Even through the autotuned awfulness, the stabismus-inducing strobe lights, and the costumes with more rivets in them than a battleship, Coloratura had made it work. Honestly, sincerely made it work.

That was why Joy Denim made such a splash. It didn’t matter that Svengallop had gotten her bathing suit and told her how to flip a dive. She was still the champion swimmer.

That was why he won. He knew which horse to bet on.

Under her hooves, the swirl was squeezed to a mushy tube.

“Well well well,” said a familiar drawl behind her. “If this ain’t a turn-up for the books, I don’t know what is.”

Coloratura spun round in her seat, and sure enough, the half-lidded, smiling face of Cherry Jubilee shone down on her. The wine-rich hair, the beauty spot on her cheek, and every detail of her swaggering amble snapped into place before she chuckled and took the seat opposite.

“Fancy me bumpin’ into you here.” Cherry winked when Cinnamon Chai placed a pile of profiteroles before her. “Remember me from the rodeo? Oh, sure you do. I can tell by your ears turnin’ red.”

“I was never at the rodeo,” growled Coloratura to her crushed swirl. “Didn’t you hear? They had a performance by ‘The Country Tourer’.”

Cherry said nothing for what felt like a full minute. Feeling stupid, Coloratura dropped the swirl onto her plate and licked her hooves.

“Boy howdy, though,” said the plantation owner, “what a performance! That ‘The Country Tourer’ gal’s got a set of pipes on ‘er. How in the hay did she end up doin’ openin’ acts at a rodeo?”

“Ask Svengallop,” muttered Coloratura, folding her forelimbs. “Apparently, she was a ‘dippy diva’ who flunked her charity shows and mistreated her staff. I wouldn’t want anything to do with such a horrible pony.”

She could hear the mare opposite rubbing her chin, squeaking like a hinge in need of oil. “We talkin’ about the manager or the singer there, sugar? This country dame’s a sucker for riddles, true, but she can’t make heads or tails of that one.”

Coloratura stuffed the swirl into her mouth and ripped a chunk off, chewing sullenly. She didn’t know why she hated this mare so much, but suddenly she very much did. Nothing would have made her less prickly than if she was just left to chew her comfort food in peace. Why couldn’t this self-called ‘country dame’ mind her own business? She swallowed the load, wincing at the weight catching in her gullet.

Opposite her, Cherry Jubilee sighed and slid a card across the table. “I’ll move to another table if you like, but I just want you to know my offer still stands. There’s a train headin’ down Dodge Junction way tonight at eight. We got good accommodation, so don’t worry about that.”

“I don’t need your pity,” snapped Coloratura, and instantly she regretted it. Her insides vanished at the thought of what she’d said. “I’m sorry. I-I mean –”

She made the mistake of looking up. She fell into silence.

After what felt like another agonizing minute, Cherry Jubilee’s inscrutable face blinked. “Well, if you’re gonna be huffy about it, I’ll take my leave now. Clearly, this ain’t a good time. But this ain’t pity, squirt. Well, OK, it is a tad, but you need bits to get back on track, an’ I need quick hooves and strong backs. This is a business, not a charity. Don’t let your conscience kick you while you’re down, that’s all I’m sayin’.”

Back to staring at her ruined dessert, Coloratura heard the chair scrape back and the hooves clop over the tiles. A slight movement in her peripheral vision proved that Cinnamon Chai had carried the platter away.

Coloratura didn’t dare look up again until she heard Cherry Jubilee shout her thanks to the baker, and when the door closed with a tinkle of the bell, she swallowed the lump in her throat, got up, and slunk towards the door…

Coloratura strode between the long tables and gritted her teeth against the bile. Rising up her throat were words she didn’t dare utter. As she passed the stool, however, she glanced up for a moment.

The ghost of Rara was seated on the peak, hooves over the microphone stand, crooning to the silent tears of the crowd.

Coloratura crushed her lids shut and pushed her way out, through the batwing doors and into the dazzling sunlight.

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