An Odyssey

With a certain degree of grace, Harpo Parish Nadermane brought forth a match and, striking it deftly against the matchbox, raised it high above his head.

• Let the gods of fire send their blessings upon us.

He lit the liquid-sprinkled coal within the old barbecue stand and immediately withdrew his hoof with reverence. He turned round victoriously, eyeing the lonely form of Frederic Horseshopin.

• Ecce, fire! said he.

Frederic took a swift step back, looking at the fire with fear and awe. How long it had been. How lonely. Have I passed the threshold? Stepping over the frontier, pass my hoof on. Strong, sturdy. Never burn, they say. But if? Then I’ll burn with it.

• Ah, Freddie, Freddie, you fearful pianist.

Harpo placed the raw mushrooms on the metal gridiron. Hopping around, he beat his hooves against the wet morning grass. Dancing the tap dance. The rain dance, for the pleasure of the fire gods.

• Neon! he called out. Neon, come here, you deaf oaf!

From the small countryhouse came a shadowy figure in round sunglasses, wild-maned, and with a morning grin on the face. Raising his hooves high above the grass, as if he were afraid to touch the watery ground, Neon marched towards the courtyard and nodded his head at the host and the cook.

• Blessed be the sacred host, he said, bowing comically against Frederic.

• Blessed be the fair guest, Frederic replied with an overly comic bow.

Why did I say that? Celestia, I looked like a fool. But I always look like a fool in their eyes, don’t I? Ever since my father died, a buffoon in mourning. Morning mourning. Put on your morning gowns, it’s gonna be cold. A drinker too. But how will I cut down on drink when you, my lords, pour me another one as soon as I am done. Done. Done for.

• Pour us a morning one, Neon addressed the plump, stately Harpo Parish Nadermane.

• And Celestia said, “Let there be drink,” and there was drink.

Harpo raised a bottle of beer and passed it on to Neon, who snatched it in his telekinetic grip.

• Much obliged, he said, and pressed his lips against the brownish glass.

If Discord made whisky- whisky and beer, they’re gonna make me drunk. Oh, whisky and beer. They’re gonna. They’re gonna make me. Drunk.

• So, Freddie, said Harpo, you’re going to hit the old Conservatiore again?

Built on the bones of its architects. The Conser- vatvaa. Vatvaa. Broken Prench he spoke, among others. Anonymous engineer, then a famous architect. Then hanging himself by the neck till dead, on a bank of river Canterlot. Our river. Like Father, who are not in Heaven. He who hangs himself… Life!

• Yes, Frederic replied, his eyes drawn to the fire, I’m going up the mountain in an hour or so.

Up in the mountain. Beyond hm hm hhm. That song I sang when I was wee. And the songs I created. A piano, accompanied by an electric guitar. What blasphemy! Never went past four-four or three-four. I got my point four-four, what you’ve got? Seven eighths? Get outta here with your indie crap. We classical musicians. Piano and electric guitar. A duet. Ha!

• Give us a mushroom, Harpo.

But the simplicity of those! Use only downstrokes, he said. Your pick should go chump chump chump. Okay, then, what do I do? Strike the chords? Are you serious? And that’s a duet for you. A duet!

• Freddie, you fearful pianist, would you like a piece of the manna of the firegods?

One twenty bpm. But we didn’t use the metronome. He has a talent for stringed instruments, he says. Can’t play a violin, or a viola, or a cello either. Does his harp thing, and the lyre, and the guitar. Oh, and that mandola. Mandola, mandola… Boasted that could play the bass as well, but ha. Faulty hoofing. Not so easy when there are no frets, is it?

• Freddie, for the sake of holy fuck, will you have a mushroom or not?

And they told me I’d be a drummer. Discoordination. When your four hooves can go the separate ways while playing just one instrument. Drums I did. But there’re no notes; how can it be an instrument, then? Those symbols on my music stand. The kick, the bass, the hi-hats. And crash cymbal, all the time, every chorus. There’s no drums in classical, though. Because it isn’t an instrument.

• Let him be, Harpo, he’s in the land of dreams.

A drummer by himself is nothing. Naught, none. But everypony always needs a drummer. He’s like the ultimate auxiliary member of the team. Without him, there’s no rhythm. Without me, then. Only a pianist can do without a drummer. Why? Not a solo instrument. That is, it is a solo instrument. A solo-rhythm. But they have those percussion techniques for the guitar now. Ah. But not every guitarist can do that. He certainly can’t. I can see it in his eyes. And what can this one do? A heretic to the world of music. A dee-jay. Contributes absolutely nothing to the holy of holies. Samples. Samples! He uses bits of music created by real musicians and gets all the credit. Samples! Sample the samples! Oh gods, it is impossible. I need to talk to him about this. This can’t last long.

• Harpo, can I talk to you for a moment?

The posh, prim poser nodded and, giving Neon an awkward, indulgent smile, took a few steps away, walking towards the fence with the excitable pianist.

• What’s wrong, Freddie darling? The gods of fire frightening you?

Ha. A buffoon and a stringer he is. A jester who plays guitar as a duet. With a piano. With me.

• How long will Neon be staying with us? Frederic asked bluntly, staring into the dull abyss of Harpo’s smirking, ironic eyes.

• Why, Harpo said, isn’t that for you to decide? You’re the almighty host, aren’t you?

• You know what I mean, Frederic said, casting a side glance at the mushroom-eating guest. You invited him to my place. Tonight was the last straw.

• Ah, the poor camel, Harpo replied with a smile. Why, you don’t like dubstep at three in the morning? Well, the poor fella just can’t take a shit otherwise. Or is it, he said, smiling again , dishonouring your holy outhouse?

Again with the humour. A jocular Harpo. A nonmusician Harpo. What divides us? What is the stone of separation? He is rich; his father is rich. He goes to law school; music is his hobby. He doesn’t have to sell his skill for bits like I do. And yet, he has skill. This is what makes us whole, I guess?

• Harpo, I cannot stand that. By gods, either he leaves or I leave.

• Ah! Harpo exclaimed. By gods! Fearful Freddie swears by gods in whom he doesn’t believe! What’s wrong with Neon? He hates Solar-butt too, doesn’t he? Shouldn’t we stick together, I guess?

Fearful Freddie. The moniker. Freddie the unbeliever. Freddie the liberator. March with me! I will lead you to Valhalla! Give me- Nothung! And I will make a Ragnarok, et vidit Frederic quod esset bonum.

• Either me or him, Frederic repeated. I will not stay here if he stays.

• Fearful Freddie will not stay at his own countryhouse, Harpo said. The horror! Listen, you know really well, he said in a more serious tone, that I can’t just shoo Neon away. He is a friend, and a fellow libertarian. Some would even take the liberty of calling him a musician.

A musician. A dee-jaay. A connoisseur of electronic music. EDM they call it. A musician! A farce!

• I’m off to the practice, Frederic said finally, loud enough for Neon to hear. I’ll see if I can get a twenty bits from the conductor.

He walked, sour, across the lawn, past the fence he went, blinking at the sun that warmed at the chirping of birds. A late morning. Almost noon. I will not return. I cannot. If he is here, I will not be. Dubstep at three in the morning. In my house!

• Let’s see if you can stand us a drink later! Harpo called out to him.

Of course. That’s all you think about, you… you… You won. You damn… You won. You have come, and you have… With your fellow squire. You have won.

The conqueror.