Following of the Sun

Taking care of the last remaining affairs of the old house was not as taxing or depressing as I had thought it would be. Rather, I had on each day which dawned felt a little bit older, and not quite in the manner that Kismet and myself had imagined ourselves to be during the final night in the atelier in Canterlot. It would be difficult to say exactly in what way then I had felt older, but I will say simply that by the time the house had been sold and the remaining effects distributed as Father had willed me to, I had found myself stopping and staring whenever I had walked past the baseball court, filled to the brim with young ponies. On every such occasion, as all of them seemed constantly to cheer for one particular strike or hit - or whatever it was that the plays in that game were called - I could not help but feel... as I said, older in some way.

I had mentioned Father's will and the distribution of the items, tangible or otherwise, and I realise I have been hasty in brushing past it so easily. There was the matter of, as my brother had referred to it, of "the family porcelain" that I felt compelled, by his request, to distribute more evenly than was Father's wish. This may seem like a trivial detail, but in my current age I'm not quite certain any such thing can truly be 'trivial'. The family porcelain simply was, whether or not it was called "the family porcelain", or if it was indeed appraised by a professional connoisseur to be worth no more bits than would be the cost of its disposal.

As I bring up Father's will, I also realise I have begun to consider it some big catalogue. A grand chapter of a family history. It's a curious affair that precisely his will has reminded me that I still have one particular part of my story left to tell. It is one that I hope will, in some small way, shed light on why some of the things in my story have unfolded the way they have, and even, perhaps, explain why I have taken the time to write about my craft.

It was not too long ago that I was commissioned by the University Arthouse of Canterlot to collect from various Equestrian universities and public properties several loose pieces that had, as they say, fallen by the wayside, and thereupon I was to document them. It was a cathartic experience, mainly because none of the pieces I had collected were my own. Travelling from place to place, as I had done for such a long period of my life, had become more peaceful than it did when I had always some intense piece of art to create, with ponies waiting on my every design update and creative vision every step of the way. I was then in a very easy frame of mind, and, together with that 'oldness' I had mentioned previously, this could have in many ways be considered a vacation.

As an aside, I must note that Cherrywell pretty much applauded my arrival in much the same way as they would had I been a princess arriving after years of drought. Certainly I felt embarrassed by such brouhaha, but by that time I had also decided largely to let whomever do whatever, resolving simply to accept praise for the positive intentions they retained. I didn't then treat my arrival as anything unworthy of celebration, taking my time to speak with each and every pony that had come to the town square to see me, be they elated retired official or "I'm quite speechless" humble gardener. When the new mayor, a young mare brimming with enthusiasm, had asked me on stage what I had thought of their town, she was delighted that I would remember its name.

Of course, as with all 'working vacations', one had to end at last where they had began, and inevitably I found myself in the PPS Café awaiting the hour that would call me to the Arthouse to meet my client. (In these days, I refer to all who commission me who are not operating directly under the Royal Sisters as "my clients", solely because each and every one of them have referred to themselves as such. It would seem silly then to give them some other name, whether or not that name by itself would be more appropriate.)

Looking around the café from my table, I had half-expected old friends to come bounding in from behind the ivy archways, or else come climbing up over the marmoreal balcony to see how I was doing. However, I was content with the notion that had I been given the opportunity, I would find the few young writers and poets in the far corner to be interesting and friendly enough. I sampled also their updated menu, and will tell you that if you should find yourself in the position to do so, it would be quite a crime not to visit the café and try their new deep fried radishes with bay leaf and raspberry coulis. (I had on that occasion enjoyed bergamot tea alongside my order, but I will leave the selection of drinks entirely to your own whims and discretions.)

I met Master Southwind in a secret room in the back of the Arthouse, and although we briefly complimented each other on not complimenting each other on our aged appearances, for a long while we were content to talk of the inventory I had delivered to the Arthouse. I took him through these various items, both specifically requested or simply donated to me upon my arrival; stopping now and then in my list to allow for him to inquire on practical dimensions or other details I had not thought immediately pertinent, such as precise colour, media, or even the exact origins of their authors and creators. These notes, as well as his comments, I would then scribble next to each item with a red pencil.

Eventually, however, when I neared the end of my list, he said to me, 'There's one personal thing I have to show you.' Despite my suggestion that perhaps we should first finish the list, seeing as it would not take more than ten more minutes to do so, he had insisted that it would be quite appropriate to "get it out the way now". Slowly then, for he did all things slower even than he did as my teacher, he showed me into another, adjoining secret chamber. In many ways, it resembled a 'counting room', as I have heard it called by those who frequented gambling houses. Metallic walls surrounded the light of a single overhanging lamp. A single bench was fully illuminated by this light, and on the far wall resided several little circular combination locks. For a brief moment I had considered, albeit it in jest, the possibility that in his final years, my old master had decided to take up the art of robbing banks. At last, however, he brought to the table a small metal box and then slid it towards me.

I had to wiggle to the edge of my chair to reach it, casting an exaggerated shadow across the wall of safes, and slowly opened the box. In it was only a heavily compressed stack of paper, yellowed with time, and likely to fall to crumbs if I were to touch it. Hesitantly I looked at Master Southwind who was ready to nod at me the one time, and I found myself, one by one, reading what turned out to be a collection of letters sent by my father.

I found myself astounded in a way I had forgotten I could be. Quickly I realised they were all written to the Royal Canterlot Palace, and each and every one was entirely about me. Diligently composed and always courteous - stressed with the familiar use of words as duty and honour - he nonetheless had managed to become very frank and unbecoming. In one letter he even went so far as to write about me thus: "It is nothing but my sincerest duty to inform your Royal Highness that already she is poised to be an invaluable asset worthy of the best education. So it is my humblest of opinions that she is an investment that would reward your Royal Highness in ways both priceless and remarkable. If it were not altogether tasteless of me to do so, I would gladly live the remaining years of my life entirely on my knees if your Royal Highness would consider in all of her wisdom my daughter in her great plans for Equestria, so that she may repay to your Royal Highness each ounce of faith thus bestowed by a hundredfold..."

He went on in a manner such in many letters, evidently feeling that such a volume of undifferentiable letters would be far more compelling than the single example. 'Perhaps you will appreciate a short walk along the exhibition?' Master Southwind suggested at some point. But, when I would not stand up, and did little but continue to peruse every single letter, he reseated himself opposite of me, saying, 'Raven Inkwell of the Royal Canterlot Palace had sent them to me, citing that it was the express wish of her Highness that they were shown to you. Perhaps she had deemed it the right time.'

At last we did find ourselves among the exhibition and, making sure to carefully examine each painting and sculpture, I soon felt I had spent an eternity in the Arthouse. Following the designated route, my neck and shoulders ached and eagerly reminded me that it had already been quite a few hours since I had eaten those radishes. In some way, perhaps the mysterious letters had also drifted in my mind quite similarly, floating around neither oppressive nor entirely ignored. In the test of the day, I did wish briefly that I had some witful scribe in there, archiving every thought that could possibly explain how everything, all these correspondences I had somehow been a part of, had been woven together throughout the years.

I was satisfied, despite my tired legs, to admire the colourful brush strokes of a promising student aged little more than twelve, who could capture movements that would make most seasoned artists blush and hide behind their easels. Bright rainbows, ever expanding; Master Southwind could introduce any artist who wasn't even there.

I was satisfied, though I could not truly comprehend its breadth, to compliment the determination of whomever it was that had taken it upon themselves to weave together sixteen-dozen cardboard boxes. Stumbled once, and accidentally looked at a Maregritte original.

I was satisfied, perhaps unnecessarily so, to think of the two of us looking at ancient pots, dug up in recent excavations, as we in fact did so. Imagine lofty balcony: another pair of us could see the other us. All relics, all examined.

At some point between the hallway and the next room Master Southwind halted, and, although he immediately turned his gaze towards the form of a classic inkblot work, I recognised clearly this covert signal. Sheltering myself behind the wall, I watched a senior curator bouncing from one exhibition to another, directing with authority his cuffed hooves towards some minute point, soon drawing gasps of both wonder and understanding around him. An impressive entourage of middle-aged visitors had gathered themselves around him, most of them quite vivacious and drunk with art. Although I knew him to be someone I had once known, it took me several minutes before I could see again in this same distinguished curator that malleable face of young Mettle.

It felt very much like I was eavesdropping, and when I had stolen a glance at Master Southwind, he had returned it with a look of comic disapproval. I supressed a laugh by giggling in my hoof, excitedly watching Mettle guide the group along the walls. I wasn't sure if it was me, but it seemed almost that in pointing at the framed pictures and orating as he did, he himself had merged with the display; joined in the unwavering, equal light that eased down from the chandelier.

Upon confessing such mischief I can't help but mention also the one time, only a few weeks before my 52nd birthday, that I did return to Fillydelphia for Royal Canterlot Palace business and, on my last day there, had visited the stained glass window I had put in place in the park. Perhaps in some way even then, as I watched Mettle move through the Arthouse, I foresaw it, as I've come to believe many ponies experience such things, if but once or twice in a lifetime. If I had recognised it, I would be thoroughly amused to be among the suits and ties of Canterlot, deep in the sparkling, beating heart of Equestrian arts, and yet find myself thinking of the streets where I grew up.

Only briefly had I admired the stonework in the monument, for I had little time. It was as out of place in the park as I had feared it would be during the many weeks I had worked on it, and even in my anonymity I felt a little embarrassed to be seated near it. When I looked at the mosaic I had created, however, I found myself thinking of Princess Celestia, as much soaring as standing perfectly still. It were not the memories of the smile that she had once given me in the royal gardens that I pictured then: rather, I thought of her smiling for me once more, close-by, yet nonetheless deep within the seclusion of her royal chambers. A smile that has never and would never be, yet was as powerful as anything I had ever known. It was a private little smile of the knowing kind, belonging entirely to my imagination.

I woke from my reverie to see, through the window, some townspony halfway across the street looking at me. But when he couldn't quite meet my eyes I realised that, of course, he had been looking at Celestia's likeness rather than the frayed old mare on the bench. He had only looked briefly, and I could not fathom all of his thoughts from where I sat, but as he continued on his way down the street with his groceries, I couldn't but sense in the stranger's steps some charm of diversion.

For a short while longer I sat on the bench, mostly looking towards the light of the sky and listening to the hazy cacophonies that had merged from so many directions. I recognised dogs, children, and baseball bats, but couldn't quite make out the distant siren and the deep, rumbling thud that reverberated somewhere beyond the school. Eventually I reasoned it about time to be heading back to Canterlot and urged myself to my hooves. I thought of Ladybird awaiting my return in the workshop and wondered briefly if any new commissions had arrived while I had been out of town. There were always so many things to do. I gathered together my bags of salts and apples and started on my walk back to the station.