The role of a writer is not to say what we all can say,
but what we are unable to say.
~ Whinnias Neigh, Early Equestrian Author*
Equestrian Ministry of Music
Winter 27th, YRPS 27408**, 1200 hours
“Somepony once asked me: why tread so far just for literature? Why pressure yourself just to learn some small detail about somepony who will be so unimportant in the grand scheme of things? ‘When one thinks about it,’ she said, ‘A single article in the grand scope of time and space will have made very little impact.’
“She was right. On that count alone, she was right. One article has very little impact, it’s true. The small amount of impact words have on a page has very little impact in the grand scope of time and space. What she failed to see, however, is the impact that a great many articles can have.
“If the Old Equestrians had simply minted one or two coins, would we have found those two? Or that one? In the grand scheme of time, would it have mattered? Very little, it’s true, but when we realize that our modern minting processes are based entirely on the research, the drive, and the forethought of the Old Equestrians, aren’t their accomplishments somewhat more important in the grand scheme of things?
“The Old Equestrians didn’t mint one or two coins. They minted a great many. Very few of these coins have been recovered, and even fewer have survived the tests and trials of time. Many have been melted down to make new coins, gold bars, or jewelry. We have lost a great many of these seemingly valueless pieces of our history in the manufacture of the present. To the average pony, therefore, these coins may seem very unimportant. Yet, when we think that, without them, we would not have the jewelry, our modern coins, or the processes by which to manufacture these coins, aren’t their accomplishments and the coins themselves very great? Even in the grand scheme of things?
“This is why I write. Many of my articles have been considered unimportant in the grand scheme of things. Could our most recent Grand Galloping Gala have changed Equestria for better or for worse? Did an epic, timeline-changing event occur during the Battle of Appleoosa? Has Equestria been forever changed by an event catalogued in my articles, in my brief frame of time? I would like to think so, especially since one of the greatest impacts made during my lifetime was made by myself.”
-The previous statements were lifted from an article written by one Penstroke Antiquis in an interview with Scoop Daily, whose quotes they were and whose story follows.
<<<----->>>
Canterlot always smells of progress. The air carries in itself a weight and scope not encompassed by air anywhere else in Equestria. The soft scent of flowers is whisked back and forth by the gentle breeze, intermingling with the musty scent of yellowing pages and sun-baked street tiles. Soft notes of ozone and burnt coal turn the air slightly acrid the closer one comes to Canterlot’s bustling industrial district. Due to Unicorn magic and local health regulations, the air is 100% safe to breathe; it is simply unpleasant to smell.
The elite of Canterlot will, therefore, choose to stick to Canterlot’s upper district, also known as the Royal District. Freestanding colonnades line the pearly cobblestone streets. Here the acrid scents of industry are replaced by the pleasing aroma of roses and the warm, buttery smell of fresh-baked croissants. Here, Canterlot’s highborn denizens hold their parties and soirees. One would feel honored if given an invitation to even the smallest of these parties, held by the lowest of Canterlot’s royalty. Here, champagne flows like water and all blood is a shade of royal blue.
It is here that she was born. Amongst the soft strains of classical music and the pleasant lilt of Upper-Canterlot voices she was raised and educated. It was here, in all the splendor and luxury that I could only dream of, that she received the greatest of the Royal Pony Sisters’ gifts: the gift of music. And it was here, after years of hard study and practice, that she graciously returned that gift to the Royal Sisters, as well as to all the citizenry of Equestria. It was here, amongst the stone and topiary gardens, the fountains of chocolate and fondue, the rivers of wealth and wine, that she gave her gift, and received the love of millions.
And now, it is here I stand, amidst the statuary depicting those famed musicians who came before her: Johooves Brahms, Ludwig van Bethooven, Pranz Schubert. Those famous artists, writers, and musicians who merely paved the way for her glory; their names are nearly forgotten in every corner of Equestria but here, the Equestrian Ministry of Music.
If one stands in the center of its courtyard, one can almost imagine that the stone colonnades that line Canterlot’s streets are made to lead here. This is not true, of course, as the monumental reliefs were originally constructed to guide lost ponies in the direction of Canterlot Castle. Still, those of us who revere music as Equestria’s true religion will readily tell you that the Ministry is Canterlot’s true center.
Having bypassed the statuary in favor of a more direct route to the mahogany doors that line the Ministry’s entrance, I pause a moment in reflection. I glance up at the Ministry’s motto, etched into the marble: “Musica est Magia.” Latin. The oldest of Equestria’s languages. The words themselves have existed far longer than Canterlot itself. Some say that this was the language that the Princesses spoke at the beginning of the world, and perhaps even before. Did their parents speak this language? Do the words of the Princesses hold the power to create and destroy worlds? Is this the reason they have only taught us the most marginal fraction of this language? No matter; I am not here to ponder that particular mystery today.
I am here, however, to unravel a history of no lesser consequence to Equestria. The facts and details I will learn here today will be passed into Equestrian history and given to the masses forever. Secrets and tales nopony knows will be exposed, and truth will be laid bare for my fellow ponies’ discovery. It is today that I perform my greatest act, the culmination of my career to date.
Today, I will interview Octavia Philharmonica, the most famed musician in all of Equestrian history, and I will be the first to have done so.
Shaking my head to clear this moment of whimsy, I approach one of the massive doors and nudge it softly with a forehoof. It swings silently inwards, revealing the bright interior of the Ministry lobby. I am greeted here by scents similar to those outside, but in deeper strength. There is rose and papery musk, of course; these two smells permeate any and every high-class or historic building in the whole of the Royal District. Yet here, I am also greeted by the scent of dusty carpet, well toned and oiled wood, and an ordinarily unidentifiable, acrid odor much like cigarette smoke, but less noxious; I know that this smell is, in fact, the mixture of chemicals used to preserve the pages of the ancient tomes bound herein.
I am almost immediately welcomed by a mousy pony wearing a pearly white collar and a black tie, cinched far too tight about his neck. He scurries towards me from a well-organized counter situated in the corner of the room. I see a flash of brass, and I observe that he is wearing a monocle. The lack of light distortion within the lens speaks volumes to me, where to an ordinary pony it would mean nothing. He does not need to be wearing this monocle; it is by no means prescription, but merely decorative. He is using it as a prop. This immediately irritates me, as I cannot stand ponies who are not genuine and honest about themselves. This trait makes me a good reporter and has been a part of me since my earliest memories.
“Ah, welcome, welcome to the Equestrian Ministry of Music! I am Master Quill, at your service,” he says, giving a polite bow by bending his forelegs at an awkward angle and lowering his head. I cannot help but imagine how funny it would be if his fake monocle were to fall loose at this moment; it remains in place as he regains his posture and gives me a lopsided grin. “What, may I ask, is your purpose in visiting the Ministry today?”
Yes, what is my purpose? I turn my head and nose through my left saddlebag, searching for the envelope. Once again, I move by scent rather than by sight. My eyes are not what they used to be, when I was a colt, and I find myself needing them less and less as I grow older. I am by no means old; I am a stallion of a mere 27 years, and am sure to live for many more. My eyes, however, are sure to go far sooner than the rest of my body is. I scent the envelope almost immediately and grasp it gently in my lips, pulling it free from the leathery compartment.
I place it gently into the attendant’s extended hoof and begin my short explanation. “I have here a letter from Crescendo Rigoberto, chairmen of your Ministry. I have received written instruction to report to him at this date and time. Is somepony available to escort me to his offices?”
“Perhaps, perhaps,” the mousy pony says, releasing the letter from the envelope and holding it away from his face to scrutinize the flowing script. This again irritates me, but it is a necessary evil. Reporters are never particularly well received, and this is no doubt a simple security protocol.
“Indeed,” the pony before me drones, somehow managing to stare down his muzzle at me, though he is far shorter. “I shall call up to his office at once. Please, have a seat,” he says, motioning to the plush leather chairs situated by his desk at the other end of the room.
I situate myself in one of the comfortable seats and begin to wait. Quill retreats to his desk and sits on a rather uncomfortable-looking stool. He picks up an ancient rotary phone and spins the dial a few times, no doubt retrieving the number for Crescendo’s office from a nearby directory. He begins a hushed conversation with someone on the other end of the line. I overhear the words “reporter” and “waiting period” and immediately find my irritation rising yet again.
<<<----->>>
I kick myself for arriving early, as I am still sitting in the chair forty-five minutes later. The mousy earth-pony had ended his phone call nearly as long ago, and had confirmed my appointment. He had told me that someone would be down to escort me further into the hallowed building, but I had yet to see any signs of life from beyond the large oaken doors framed in the wall opposite me.
Finally, after nearly an hour of waiting, one of the nigh-impenetrable slabs of wood hisses open and a stately stallion in a pressed black suit steps into the room. His hair is parted directly down the middle and falls to either side in well-oiled, jet-black strands. His fur is a medium gray color, a little less brown than mine, and a well-groomed gentleman’s moustache graces his upper lip.
“Ah, Mr. Daily, I presume,” he says in an affected Upper-Canterlot accent, looking at me over the rims of his golden spectacles. His accent and manner of dress leave no doubt that he is of high breeding and that he has graciously chosen to volunteer his time within these hallowed halls. Though most of Canterlot’s upper-crust citizens would sneer at charity work, some of those less-delusioned sorts will occasionally abandon their tawdry homes and repetitive parties in search of fulfillment. These will then eventually find their way to various non-profit organizations, where they inevitably become philanthropists, tour-guides, or even labor-workers. Some say that, in the last millennium, the Princess of the Sun herself was caught serving greasy food to the underprivileged poor in a Manehattan soup kitchen. Statutes have been passed since then to prevent this kind of behaviour by either of our monarchs.
“Yes, that’s me,” I say, flashing him a grin that (I hope) is filled with admiration. I have little respect for those ponies who while their lives away in worthless pursuits, but anypony who will give of his valuable time and effort to educate the masses is worthy of my respect.
“Very good. If you will follow me please.”
He turns and gives me a view of his toned hindquarters and equally well-oiled tail. I follow him through the door and stand back as it swings shut behind us. When I had seen the doors from the outside, I had assumed they led into some large room, so closely were they spaced. This proves not to be the case now, as we are in a large hallway leading far ahead. Silent electric lamps burn above us, and priceless works of art are spaced at regular intervals. Though I doubt the painters themselves knew where their works would end up, the Equestrian Ministry of Music has done a fine job in selecting only those paintings and photos whose message reflects some musical aspect: a bit of tablature here, a violin clasped in iron hoof there, a portrait of a frowning Tchaihorseky. I wish I could stop to admire each as we pass, but I have more pressing matters to attend to.
“I do apologize for the delay, Mr. Daily. The ministry has been somewhat bogged-down in bureaucracy and figurative ‘red-tape,’ what with the upcoming Harvest Moon Celebration. I daresay I was surprised when Dr. Rigoberto mentioned that he had granted you an interview, especially in this, our busiest of seasons.”
I don’t bother to point out that he did not, in fact, list the cause for the delay; I instead attempt to return the effort at polite conversation. Mustering all the class and sophistication that I can without preparation, I effect a slight Canterlot air.
“I must admit to being a little surprised myself. You’ve no doubt heard of the stir my articles caused after the events of the Grand Galloping Gala?” The well-dressed gentlepony gives a slight nod. “After mentioning her somewhat negatively within said articles, I had expected to be refused at least once. I can’t imagine why I would be not only granted the interview, but to be asked here before I could request it!”
The gentlepony seems lost in thought for a moment, then turns to me. “I may be able to give you some clue, Mr. Daily, but you must promise to remain silent as to the source of such information.”
I stop long enough to place a hoof over my heart. “My word is my bond.”
He looks side to side, making sure we are unnoticed. He needn’t have worried; the hall is empty save for the two of us. “You have impressed some ponies in high places with your candor. Most would have been afraid to portray not only the Mistress, but several members of the Royal Family in a negative fashion. Your scathing review of Blueblood’s actions ruined his social life and sullied his family name beyond repair.”
I blanch a little as he says this; I always knew my words were powerful, but I had no idea that their strength reached this far into the upper echelon. He eyes me appraisingly, noting my discomfort. “Not to worry. Most among his acquaintances already despised him. You served only to intensify that emotion, not to create it anew.”
I let out a breath I wasn’t aware I had been holding. “I may not have the grace and respect of some reporters, Mr...”
“Ebonmane.”
“Mr. Ebonmane, but I have never published a word on any topic that hasn’t been absolutely true. You may have noticed that my column in the Daily has been named ‘Just the Facts.’”
He nods and seems about to respond, but we arrive at the opposite end of the corridor. “I can escort you no further, Mr. Daily. Please head up the staircase to the top level and ring the buzzer by the double doors. Mr. Rigoberto will be with you presently. Her ladyship will be no doubt ecstatic that you have arrived.”
With that, he gives a stately tilt of his head and turns to leave. I watch him go, then turn to the large doors in front of me. The motto is once again emblazoned above the frame’s arch, and this time there are golden letters etched into the wood of the doors themselves: “Great Library”.
This is not the first time I have been to the Ministry of Music; this will, however, be the first time that I have been allowed past these well-guarded doors. Inside are some of the oldest books in Equestria, dating back to the days when the Princesses roamed wide, grassy fields followed by herds of defenseless ponies, made refugees by Discord’s reign. It was then and there that the first musicians put ink to parchment and penned the Origin Song. This is the Song from which all others are derived; the original was lost long ago, no doubt the victim of Discord’s tyranny. One of only two copies rests here, in the Great Library; the other copy is locked securely in the Royal Archives at the Palace of the Royal Pony Sisters.
The Origin Song isn’t the only ancient or sacred document stored within this great hall. Many other musical works and famous music-themed literary masterpieces are also kept here. Few are they who are allowed past these doors, and fewer still are given access to the secured bookcases. While I have not been granted the latter privilege, the former is more than enough to satisfy me.
As I nudge the doors open, a blast of cool air hits me in the muzzle. It carries the scent of must, age, and yellowed paper. Most other ponies would simply think they had stepped into the Literature Wing at their local museum, but I know that this hall is so much more.
I allow the tendrils of my consciousness to stretch out in all directions. I may not be able to access this wealth of knowledge by myself, but by reading through the eyes of other ponies, I can at least gain some insight into this magical world. There are exactly 27 ponies in this room besides myself; 19 of them are students of the Royal Music Academy, studying the ancient works as part of a school project. The other 8 are an amalgam of professors, knowledge-seekers, and at least one other reporter like myself. They are the true artists; those who have come to these halls not to gain knowledge for themselves, but to pass it on to others. I find my heart swelling with pride to be among those 8. I feel nothing for the others.
Light filters down through the glass dome. Iron struts criss-cross the surface, giving it an almost web-like appearance. For a moment I have a flashback; glass rains down from above in large shards, and I hear the wails of ponies whose flesh is rent by the heavy, razor-sharp plates. I shake it off in an instant. When one is actively reading the minds of others, one must maintain clarity of one’s own mind. I observe the large, silo-shaped room, staring up towards the dome itself. Each level is completely circular, with bookcases built into the outer walls themselves. Radiating outward from these walls like the spokes of a cart-wheel are more bookshelves. I can see the shimmering, magical barriers enchanted into every shelf. Any unicorn mage worth his salt would be able to break the barriers easily, but the 11 in the room who are unicorns are doing no such thing. The only way they permit themselves to break the barriers is with a special talisman, issued to those with permission to read the tomes.
Directly before me, set on a marble pedestal and shielded by a barrier so impenetrable that my heart races as I near it, is the Origin Song.
I know I sound pretty condescending. “Most ponies” this and “many ponies” that. Trying to prove that I’m different. Trust me when I say this; even the most uncultured, mentally-handicapped, completely-uneducated pony would feel honored, awed, even cowed in the presence of the Origin Song, and this one is just a copy.
Legend holds that it took the work of a thousand ponies to finish the Origin Song. Each one contributed a single measure, trying to top the one before it. As such, the Origin Song starts out very simple and slow; a single note playing gently through the air, like the breeze through a field of wheat. From there, it climbs and broadens, strengthening into a tumult. Near the end, the Origin Song is so full and powerful that, during Equestria’s dark days, its playing was outlawed because of the structural damage it could cause to low-grade buildings.
It is a confirmed fact that the original Origin Song was powerful enough, when played correctly, to bring hours of peace around the world after it was played. The Thousand Year Peace began shortly after Discord was defeated by the Royal Pony Sisters. While the official story holds that the princesses instigated this peace, well-educated historians posit that Discord’s forces were calmed by the Origin Song. Still, this is merely a myth.
It brings me great sadness to say that fragments of the Origin Song have been lost to time. Once again, oral tradition speaks of more than a thousand measures, each stronger than the last, and yet, in perfect harmony they were formed. Today’s edition of the Origin Song stands at just 317 measures; a short piece by musical standards. Furthermore, the magic in the song can only be brought out by certain magically-tuned instruments. Most of these instruments are locked somewhere within this building; the remainder are owned either by private collectors or top-tier musicians. The musician I am here to visit today just happens to be one of them.
I finally break free of my musing over the Origin Song and begin to ascend the spiraling staircase towards the top level. The staircase is made entirely of metal and should offer a cacophony of clangs as my shoes strike the steps; yet, they are as silent as a whisper, no doubt magically altered to allow for an absolutely silent ascent.
Reaching the apex, I note the lack of bookcases on the top level. A velvet rope stretches across the end of a narrow, metal bridge with a sign dangling from the middle: “Authorized Access Only”. This phrase is listed on the sign in several other languages as well.
The whole time, as I ascended, I was listening to the thoughts of those around me. They ranged from musings about the Origin Song to the analysis of life itself. It always amazes me how deep are the thoughts evoked by music. Some say Equestria was formed when the Royal Pony Sisters sang it into existence. I know this to be … misguided, but not entirely incorrect.
As I near the oaken doors, they open of their own accord. Beyond lies a pony dressed in rich, red robes that drape to the floor on all sides, hiding his hooves and tail. His mane is combed back and shined with oil. He is flanked on either side by some type of attendant and a Celestial Guard. I wonder for a moment how this stallion must rate to warrant an actual Celestial Escort, but I find out before I can ask.
“Mr. Scoop Daily, I presume,” he purrs, his deep baritone causing the floor beneath my hooves to vibrate. I pull the tendrils of my consciousness forward and thrust them towards the pony before me. Know thy enemy, as they say, and I can tell that this pony is no friend of mine. An icy chill fills my body as my consciousness comes into contact with his. Disdain, superiority, and chagrin fill this pony’s soul, and beneath that, a boiling pit of misguided rage.
“That’s me,” I say, automatically leveling my voice. I do not wish for him to discover my sudden anxiety.
“Madame Octavia waits beyond the next room. If you would please follow Commander Starwing, he will escort you to her private studio.”
I bow my head lightly in feigned gratitude and respect. Ponies of this stature often expect to be honored, especially among the Canterlot elite. As a reporter, I understand the importance of maintaining a level head at all times.
Before I can walk past the oily, dark stallion, however, he extends a foreleg to block my path. My muzzle is right next to his. His ears are pinned back against his mane, creating two breaks in the oily black wave. He whispers to me gutturally: “I don’t suppose I must inform you of our star musician’s busy schedule, Mr. Daily. Do be prompt with your interview.” The venom in his words sends another shiver down my spine, but I manage to suppress it. I can detect the scent of ash as the pony lowers his foreleg and struts past me, moving slowly so as to avoid tripping over the long train of his robes. The chill turns to shivers as I sense a secondary presence about Crescendo. I am all too familiar with this presence.
Starwing gives me a pitying look and speaks, breaking my concentration. “Apologies. Crescendo can be like that at times. Nevertheless, I must also insist that you end your interview promptly, in one and a half hours exactly. Octavia must have time to prepare for the Solstice Concert. You understand.”
I nod as we proceed through the quiet, empty anteroom. We come to yet another set of doors and Starwing knocks gently with a gold-shod forehoof. “Miss Philharmonica. Your guest has arrived,” he barks, managing to sound respectful and commanding at once. I wish, not for the first time, that I had mastered said trait.
“Do send him in, Commander,” says a lilting, Canterlot-accented voice from the other side of the door. “Oh, and thank you for your courtesy.”
Starwing nods and pushes the door aside. “Enter,” he says, once again sounding respectful, yet firm. “And … good luck. I hear your methods are somewhat unorthodox. I don’t suppose the Madame will appreciate that.”
I nod and give him a subtle wink. “You’d be surprised what I can get away with.”
He gives me a stoic stare and then turns to walk away. I can hear his thoughts, just like anypony else’s. He thinks that I haven’t noticed the slight upturn of his lips. He is incorrect.
With that, I turn and enter the room.
*True source is Anais Nin, a French-Cuban author. Here’s a link to his Wikipedia Page: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ana%C3%AFs_Nin
**YRPS stands for “Year of the Royal Pony Sisters.” For the purposes of this story and its companion story, Night of Tears (unreleased as of September 17th, 2012), the reader is to assume that this is the amount of years since the creation of the world in which Equestria lies.
