Octavia took out her cello and propped it against the table, then ran a block of rosin over her bow. She went over her usual morning checklist: cup of coffee ready to go, stack of music on her stand, bow tie adjusted, smile on her face. And she started right in to her warm-up exercises.
She was one of only a few musicians who could afford her own studio space. What a wonderful space, too! Plenty of room for all her books and leaflets, albums and posters, even a work area for when she wanted to try her own hoof at writing a little music. She made sure to invite over any of her colleagues who could use a private room for practicing, but not many took her up on the offer.
Scales first, then she ran through a few simple pieces to get into the feel of some different styles. She’d always enjoyed folk dances the most and often found her hips automatically swaying along with the imaginary steps of a partner. One of these days, she’d have to take some time off and go traveling. To see those dances in their pure, native form, by ponies in traditional costume, performing in the streets the same way their families had for generations: a Kalamatianos in a cobblestoned alley of Laponia, a tarantella along a busy thoroughfare in Maresala, a stately pavane in the town square of Le Manes, a jota on a rustic farm in Pasturias. She’d play along with the locals while the crowd danced and shouted and laughed into the night, long after dark, with the bitter scent of cooking fires all around, exotic spices she could practically taste in the air.
Some day.
She’d stopped playing. Good thing she could keep her focus when she really needed to. If she drifted off like that during a concert…
It had gotten a little warm in here, anyway. Octavia leaned her cello against the table again and walked over to the window. In the middle of the day, nopony would mind the sound—she swung the window open and leaned out to take a deep sniff of the air. It had rained briefly that morning, and that scent it leaves when it first starts still lingered. One time, she’d heard that there was a word for it, but she couldn’t remember now.
Anyway, she returned to her music and had her hoof poised to start on the next piece when a bird landed in the tree just outside. It didn’t have much to say—terse and to the point, like only a cardinal could do. A short, high-pitched chirp every few seconds.
Octavia reached way down the hoofboard to force a high tone. Sounded like a G, more or less. She bowed a quick note, and… the bird ignored her. She tried plucking the string instead, but the sound quality was just too different. She could get a closer approximation by whistling, and even then, the cardinal paid her no attention. It continued on with its chatter and eventually left.
Odd how she’d learned to tune out everyday occurrences, but now that she listened, a whole chorus of birdsong rang out over the city. She recognized a wren call and a blue jay, but no way would she attempt to imitate those ones: the jay almost metallic, and the wren with too rapid a trill.
But the more she listened, the more she could pick out. From a few doors down, an adorable little “chick-a-dee-dee-dee-dee.” And bobbing around on the sidewalk below, some mourning doves. Now that she could do—they even had kind of a wooden tone. Octavia took her bow and mimicked the sound, which the cluster of birds immediately answered. Back and forth they talked for a good ten minutes. At least she thought they did. She wondered what she was saying…
A fairly repetitive song, though, and she soon bored of it. She’d improvise, but for all she knew, it’d sound like gibberish to them. This wasn’t exactly new to her; she remembered imitating birdcalls on her first filly-sized violin, but she’d never actually subjected herself to the criticism of the professionals. They looked up at her, but didn’t otherwise react. Under the circumstances, she just might consider that a compliment.
In any case, she pricked her ears for something with a little more variety to it, and—somewhere across the street. At first, she thought it might be a few different birds close together, but the songs never overlapped. She’d counted four or five different melodies, all repeating in random order and duration.
So she played through the first couple, alternating back and forth after an odd number of bars, then gradually working the third and fourth patterns into the mix. The voice answered, louder than before, so Octavia pressed her bow a little harder into the strings in response. Outside, the bird sang even more rapidly, but Octavia could keep up, no problem. She picked up a couple of new passages it hadn’t sung before and played them back.
A broad smile crossed her face. She was actually having a conversation! About what, who knew? But she’d had a fun time with it. This might have to become a regular thing. The song wasn’t exactly the same every time, so in this instance she had no misgivings about adding a flourish here and an ornamentation there.
She’d gone on for a while and hadn’t even noticed that the singing stopped until she heard the soft rustle of feathers on her windowsill. A… a robin. And it chattered away angrily at her. What had she done?
Well, first, why wasn’t it scared of her? Octavia glanced down at herself. Gray head, the white of her collar on her throat. The reddish wood of her cello held in front of her. Right. She might pass for a giant robin, she supposed, depending on whether that one had wandered into a vat of cider recently. But as to the first question…
Think. She had to think quickly. Or just shoo the thing off, but curiosity had gotten the better of her. Why would her copying make him mad? At least she assumed it must be a “he,” because… Because the males sing to mark their territory.
She had a little chuckle at her own expense. Fighting with a bird over the rights to the narrow strip of grass in front of her house. Why not? She stepped out from behind her cello, and the startled robin dashed away, not even bothering to perch in one of the nearby trees. It flitted on down the street, where she lost it over the next line of rooftops. She… won? Whatever.
Enjoying another laugh, she started up again. It was a lovely tune, and she didn’t hear any more robins outside who might strike up an argument with her. Though she would have to exercise some discretion if she decided to try this again.
Randomly sifting through the various charming tunes she’d learned today, she played on for a good ten minutes. Besides a fun exercise, it actually sounded good—she might have to write these down and do something with them later. Maybe work them in at a recital or give them to one of the ponies she knew who composed grander pieces for full ensembles. Yes, that would be a great idea.
“Petrichor!” she said out loud. That was the word that had escaped her, that scent of fresh rain. She just knew that would have bugged her to no end until she figured it out. Now, where was she…?
And then that soft fluttering at the window again. “Look,” Octavia said with a smirk, “I thought we settled this.” She turned to face her newly acquired rival, but—
A duller red on the breast, closer to brown, and a little smaller, too. It had a tiny cluster of blue flowers clutched in its beak. As she stared at it, the bird cocked its head at her.
What…? Oh.
Oh.
Birds—male birds—sang to attract a mate, too, didn’t they? “Listen, I’m sorry but…”
The bird set her flowers on the windowsill and nudged them forward with her beak.
“Oh, dear…”
Author's Note
A piece I had written for Peregrine Caged's Album 2, but the project has been cancelled, so might as well publish it.
