Have you ever looked at a cello? I mean, really looked? Have you ever seen how gracefully the scroll turns in? Have you ever stroked the strings hesitantly as if it were delicate china that could break at the slightest touch? Have you ever smelled the wood, enjoying the slight scent of a forest? Have you ever played a note and then put your hoof on the back of it's belly, savoring the vibrations? Have you ever gone through the painstaking process of cleaning rosin from under the bridge off? Have you ever spent hours attempting to get something out of the f-holes that let the sound sing? Have you ever just wanted to go inside of your cello, to escape from life? Have you ever wanted to be your cello? No? Well then, it must be hard for you to comprehend the enormity of a musician's love for their instrument. To me, my cello is better than any lover that I may or may not get. Sound is my life. Music is my life. The cello is my life.
Have you ever had a nightmare? Have you ever had a nightmare where you can't hear? I have that every night. In my dream, I'm on top of a hill over-looking the ocean. When I should hear the thunderous waves, I hear nothing. I look up and see birds flying. I still hear nothing. I look to my right and see my grandmother playing the violin. I can see the bow moving across the strings like the waves in the ocean, never stopping. I can feel the vibrations from the strings. I should be able to hear this, but I can't. I scream, and I wake up to hear gentle classical music playing in the background of my silent home. When the music reaches my ears, I feel safe, I feel at home. I give myself to the music. I feel the melodically articulate symphony playing their hearts out, and I know that I fit in.
Neither of my parents were musical. They couldn't tell F# from Ab. Yet somehow, they knew that I had a gift.
One day, my mother came up to me. "Octavia," she said, her a happy middle C. "There is somepony that I would like to introduce you to!" That was the first time that I met my Grandmother.
"Hello! My name is Presto Overture! A pleasure to meet you," she told me.
I was speechless. In her bag, I saw a strange case. "What is that?" i asked, pointing.
My grandmother smiled. "Let me show you!"
She led me into the house. I led her into the Living Area where she brought the strange black case out.
"Octavia, this is a violin," she explained, opening the case.
The violin was beautiful. It was the perfect mix of brown and auburn. I couldn't help but gasp.
Presto nodded. "Yes, it is gorgeous, is it not?" she asked, already knowing the answer.
She got the violin set up by taking it out and tuning it. Lastly, she took out what looked like a stick with hair.
"This is called a bow," she said, smiling at my open mouth. "It helps to make my violin sing rather than hum."
Finally, she played. The first piece was Concerto in A minor by Antonio Vivaldi. It was a little bit fast, but still wonderful. Next came Winter by Antonio Vivaldi. It was a slower piece, and the violin sounded as if it were mourning, or craving something that it didn't have. Lastly came Moonlight Sonata by Beehoofen. It made me cry. The sounded like it was grieving for something, what I did not know. My Grandmother stopped, but I was still in the zone. My eyes were as big as they could get. I knew instantly that I wanted to play a sting instrument.
"Grandmother Presto? I would like an instrument," I whispered, not wanting to break the feeling.
She nodded. "We can go to the store tomorrow, okay?"
I nodded eagerly.
The next day I woke up at 3 a.m. because I was so excited. I waited around, hoping that my Grandmother, Presto Overture, would be ready to go. I had to wait until 11 a.m. for her to be ready.
We went to Largo in Canterlot. I went in and stopped dead. Never before had I seen so many stringed instruments in one place, heck, I had never seen more instruments! I walked as if I were in a trance. Looking around, I stood right in front of a huge violin.
"That's a cello," my Grandmother told me.
Immediately I wanted it. I wanted it more than anything. "M-may I please have it?" I asked.
"Of course! While we're at it, we can find a teacher as well."
The cello was bought, my lessons taken. Grandmother Presto died a few years later. She told me to never stop playing, to never waste my talent.
That brings me to today. To this fateful day. It started off normal enough, but then again, don't most days?
I awoke to my cello music. I got up and made some dark coffee. I then put it in the fridge. Walking back into my room, I unpacked my cello, carefully, as if untangling a child from its tangled blankets. First the zipper, slowly, carefully. Next actually opening the case, gently, soothingly. I looked upon the cello and smiled. I then took out the bow and rosined it, careful not to put not much on. Finally, the cello comes out. I pick it up, caress it, warm it up with my hooves. I pick it up, stand and tune by ear. Even if it is off by a hair, I fix it. I mess with it until I am happy. Then, I pick up the bow and do scales. Each note that I play is gentle and soft, until the crescendo, where it gets bold and harsh, then back to the soft and gentle nature of a piano. I practice a couple more scales, feeling a little bit strange, but not caring. I then try to play an open A, but it doesn't work. I try playing all of the strings, but nothing happens. I am frantic now, trying to make noise. Trying to hear something.
I gently put my cello into it's case and race around the house, turning the water on, banging pots together, turning on stereo's and blasting them, stomping, but nothing works. It has been ten minutes of silence. Ten minutes of hell. I feel myself go over to my cello and look. I notice the graceful turn of the scroll. I stroke the strings, but don't hear a sound. I smell the wood, and I am in a forest of trees. I play a note, and feel the vibrations. I feel myself breaking, but I move on. I clean the rosin off from the bridge. I felt the f-holes, and yearned to hear them sing. I desperately wanted to be inside of my cello, to escape from this oppressing silence that is killing me.
Finally, I can't take it anymore. I walk up to my bedroom, thinking that this is a dream. A horrible, horrible nightmare. I turn my music on out of habit, then lay in be and close my eyes.
When I next open my eyes, I am overlooking the sea. I hear the waves crashing against the rocks, hear the seagulls crying, and hear the violin. I turn around and see my Grandmother standing there, playing her cello. The sight of her smiling face, and the music that she is playing makes me sob.
"Yes, the Moonlight Sonata...on third song I played for you, correct?" she noticed me crying. "Darling, what is wrong?" she asked, putting her violin in her case. "Oh..." she shook he head.
"I am so sorry dear," Grandmother Presto continued, her voice shaking. "Let me explain. Each pony in our generation that is gifted with a musical talent suffers from a curse set upon our family long ago. A curse that makes us go deaf."
There, on the beach, I felt all of my fly away like a bow that a beginner lets go of on accident. "Grandmother, I am afraid of the silence," I breathed, not wanting to admit it.
Presto Overture smiled. "I can understand, but did you not spend the first part of your life in silence?" she asked, looking at me.
I nodded.
"And did you not feel afraid?"
This question stumped me. I didn't remember...it was too long ago.
"No...I suppose not," I replied, not knowing what I was getting into.
"Octavia, listen, you will get used to the silence...and as for music, you can still feel the vibrations, yes?" she asked, already knowing the answer.
I nodded, too confused to string words together.
"Then you can still feel the music, after all, isn't that what music is all about?"
I smiled. "Yes! I understand! But what about when I feel scared?"
"Remember your first musical experience."
Octavia woke up, not hearing anything. She got up, walked to her cello, and played Moonlight Sonata.
Author's Note
F# and Ab are notes (F sharp and A flat).
This story is special to me. I play the violin, so I can understand what is going through her mind. Silence is golden, until it forced upon you.
