The Sacred Sonatina

The morning was a tired one again.

"This will not do," she muttered to herself, trotting into the kitchen. It wasn't a one-time thing; the mare had followed her home, no less! She actually knows where I live — that's just not safe! Some reprobate like her might be going through my trash, or trying to accost me on the street! I can't imagine what she wants from me!

After her usual breakfast (a cup of coffee and a few slices of toast) she remembered something her grandmother, Double Time, had told her about. The story was that J. S. Buck had written a piece she shared one evening with Octavia’s grandmother herself, a piece Buck had named The Sacred Sonatina.

She had interrupted her grandmother with a terminology question: What’s a sonatina? Is that like a sonata? Her grandmother answered that yes, it was just a shorter version, and Buck used the old meaning of the word, not the current one.

Her grandmother had left out details of something, Octavia was sure, but she could not pester enough to get those missing pieces of information. Double Time did tell her the reason Buck never let anypony else know about the Sonatina, though: Buck believed the piece could apparently alter the mind of a pony who listened, change what they believed, and even steal away their will.

How could music do that? It’s pretty, but how could it do that?! she had asked. Octavia couldn’t believe she was ever that small, that unaware of the full beauty of music.

Her grandmother had looked away for a few moments before trying to respond. Buck never found out, Tavi. She decided that the Sonatina was too dangerous to let anypony know about, after playing it once.

How do you know? Octavia had asked.

That doesn’t matter, her grandmother said, and somehow Octavia had wondered if she was upsetting her grandmother. The point is, Buck believed the Sacred Sonatina was a way to perform earth pony magic.

Earth ponies don’t have magic, Grandma.

They don’t have conscious magic, Tavi. You’re not old enough yet to know it from school, but earth ponies have magic too. Unicorns can use theirs; pegasi can fly. Earth ponies use it to build strength and dexterity. It’s in every movement of an earth pony, even the ones that produce music from an instrument. Buck wasn’t a unicorn, but she knew a little bit about magic even if she didn’t cast spells. She believed she had accidentally found a way for earth ponies to focus magic. What her grandmother told her seemed impossible.

Why wouldn’t she just use it to make unicorns do things for her? Or make pegasi fly her places? Or make all the ponies listen to her music?

Her grandmother had swallowed and looked away at the suggestions. Becauseit would have been wrong, Tavi. Her grandmother had moved right along to a pleasant topic. Now, I think it’s time for ice cream, don’t you? And I’ll tell you all about Buck’s other music if you want. Octavia was then at an age then where ice cream could end any line of questioning, but she was a grown mare now, and Octavia had never quite forgotten about it.

Wrong. That was what Grandma Double Time said it was, wrong. And Octavia, naive child that she was, had accepted it at face value.

But if the story were true, and I had the Sonatina, then I’d have a way to control the situation. Something deep in her mind couldn't help but wonder. What would having the Sacred Sonatina be like? To hold that sort of power over another, to simply extinguish their irritating or problematic behaviors? The idea, while “wrong” according to Double Time, sounded quite attractive in its own way. All I need to do is find the lost Buck sonatina, and then I can use it on that infuriating DJ. I could tell her to forget about me entirely! That seemed like a bad idea, for reasons Octavia couldn’t quite place. She didn’t dwell on it, though. Once I have her under control, I could — I could do anything!

Normally she'd have discussed this idea with Noteworthy, but Octavia felt it was better to keep this to herself; Noteworthy had seemed positively alarmed by inconsequential things of late, and the last thing she needed was for her only friend in the CCO to start panicking. If I head to the family home in Prance, I can look through Double Time's papers in the library. I'm sure she kept Buck's Sacred Sonatina; she said Buck asked her to personally!

She left Canterlot via air taxi as soon as the weekend started; she said her polite goodbye-for-nows to those in the CCO, since she’d be missing weekend rehearsals due to “family affairs.” My instincts had been right; Noteworthy looked almost ill just from hearing the news that I was leaving. I'll be back before he realizes it, though. She only needed a few days to look through what her grandmother, Double Time, had left behind — papers and books. She had no doubt that the Buck piece was in there somewhere.

Then I can come back, claim the family issue is resolved — and then the next time the unicorn “bumps into me,” I can invite her somewhere private for a listen. She'd probably come to my home, if I asked. Octavia shifted in her seat. She certainly showed up outside it without any prompting!

Thoughts of the plebeian mare continued to plague her, all the way to southern Prance.

* * *

Once the air taxi had landed, she took a leisurely trot out to the family home. The place was not terribly well kept, not compared to the way she remembered it as a filly, but it was functioning, and with half the rooms closed off it was even a little profitable. The staff had begun giving tours of the place during weekend hours, and it was a hit with the tourists that visited Prance.

She made her respectful greetings as she entered, and questions about her presence were hoofwaved away with a few little white lies. They didn’t need to know the truth; the fewer ponies who knew, the better.

The first day was lengthy and tedious, a dig through the bookshelves and papers. I had no idea Double Time had so many books! Most were biographies of composers and musicians, but there was a section of romance novels too. Double Time was such a sentimentalist, she reflected. The rest were sheaf upon sheaf of loose notes.

If it's in the notes, it'll take ages to find, she mused. However, there was a notable gap in her biographies — nothing on J. S. Buck, which was quite odd. I know she had several of them, so perhaps if I find that little stash of them, the Sonatina will be in it. She resolved to find any little stacks of books squirreled away in the rest of the furniture.

The next morning, she found what she was looking for. A small cabinet that had been in Double Time's bedchamber had no less than five books on the life of Johanna Samantha Buck. Leafing through each for pencilled in notes or papers folded inside, she found an envelope.

It had something written in pencil that was only partially visible; several of the words had letters that could no longer be made out, but the lengths of the words were still obvious.

"My greatest work —- — th—, but my greatest l—- —- you, — d——- beloved Double Time."

It seemed that some sort of liquid had spattered on the envelope at some point when the pencil marks were relatively fresh. Funny. I don't remember Grandmother saying she knew Buck personally.Double Time was barely a mare during Buck's last two decades. I suppose that explains how she knew about Buck's lost piece.

She tugged the paper out gently and scanned over it. It looks rather simple! Indeed, the paper she pulled out of that envelope had a deceptively simple composition laid out, again in pencil — but somehow this had lasted longer than the other marks, probably for the luck of being inside the envelope instead of outside.

She tucked it away in a saddlebag, and galloped through the halls, intent on her return.

* * *

A week later, she found herself in a a poorly-lit nightclub, assaulted with throbbing beastly sounds.

Octavia had to snare the infuriating unicorn in question to solve her little issue — but that meant she had to find her. All through the next week, the mare hadn’t 'bumped’ into her again. Octavia wanted to get this all resolved as soon as possible, but she'd never gotten the mare's name, so she had little choice but to look that weekend in the nightclubs of Canterlot in the area where she'd been “bumped into” before.

Every single one had an overall scent of liquor and sweat. Ponies moved in the near dark, like animals in the forest, half obscured by objects or other ponies they were rubbing their muzzles or sides against. The filthy reprobates. Octavia's eyes strained to catch sight of whoever happened to be up in the “booth,” as it was apparently called, in each one — and once she found one with a white coat, she'd make sure she waited and got a chance to turn some charm on. All I have to do is get her to listen to me play. If I choose my words carefully and lead her along the path, I can play her more beautifully than I play my cello. I know I can do this.

It is all about control. And control was Octavia’s strong suit.

In the third club she'd visited, one of the patrons made a gesture of communication. "Never seen you around here before," said a mare, with dulled blue eyes, in what she presumably thought was a seductive tone of voice. The female in question had breath like paint thinner, but she was a reasonably attractive mare by any objective standard.

"You never will again," Octavia announced curtly, turning around. The yellow mare mumbled something back, something that sounded hurt, but Octavia wasn't concerned. The DJ in that booth was purple; she was looking for her white unicorn.

She spotted her prey, two places later. With the particularly distasteful cacophony in the air, Octavia looked up to see the mare in the booth, a wide grin on the DJ’s face as she surveyed the throbbing crowd. She looked like a child playing with a prize possession, and she was. No, worse — she was a vandal, just as Octavia had said. A vandal of the music I love, of the sweet symphony of sound and song and silence. She turns it into this — this excrement!

The white mare spotted Octavia, somehow, and waved a hoof. Octavia hesitated. I should wave back, I think? She did so, and the white unicorn's smile widened a little. Octavia's stomach lurched. I think I'm going to be ill. Okay, Octavia, keep it together;you only need to get her to listen, and then the game begins!

The sound ended, and everypony on the dance floor, sweating and panting like farm animals, found their way to seats and tables. The white unicorn had vanished from the booth, but surely she'd have to turn up somewhere —

Octavia was jostled from behind, and spun around immediately. "Excuse you! What — "

"Hey," murmured the white unicorn. “Funny meeting you here.”

"Oh!" Octavia sputtered. "My mistake, I hadn't realized you were, ah — greeting me, in the manner which you had before." Smile, Octavia! This is a performance; make it perfect, and it'll go perfectly!

"No sweat, babe." The white mare pushed the glasses up, and looked Octavia over from top to bottom, and then back up, rather slowly. “Never thought I’d see you in a place like this.”

The mare’s eyes roamed across her body — like she was a simple animal! Stifle the anger, Octavia. She just had to keep as calm as she could, despite the warm flush she was feeling. This place is stuffy to boot. “I suppose I’m quite out of place, really.”

“It’s good to see you, all the same.” There was a pause, and then the DJ said something that was lost in the wash of a new, horrid beat throbbing from the stage.

“What?” Octavia said, trotting away from the sound. The white unicorn trotted beside her.

"I said, I like bumping into you.” She giggled. “I like that blush you get when you're angry about something, too." Octavia stifled anger, and the white mare snickered. "Like that. Sorry, I couldn't resist. But you are cute when you're angry."

"I, ah . . . that . . . that's nice of you to say." It wasn't, of course; it was infuriating and distasteful. But Octavia could falsify enjoyment with the best of them. She'd had to sit through the recitals of every other student she was ever in a music class with, after all. Octavia pushed a smile onto her face, one that she almost believed herself.

"It's only the truth." She lifted one eyebrow. "So, what's your name, anyway? I never got it before."

"It's Octavia."

"Call me Vinyl. Vinyl Scratch."

* * *

Octavia invited Vinyl back for coffee and a listen to the Buck piece. “Sure, I like old songs,” the unicorn had said with a chuckle. Octavia wanted to strangle the vandal then and there, but of course she did not. She had a plan, after all — and she had self-control, unlike the" unruly-maned mare.

They had coffee first. Vinyl's “discussion” started with a bit about clubs and gigs, but moved on to Octavia's training, which wasn't somewhere Octavia had thought the conversation would go.

"I spent my early years at Horseshoelliard, in Manehattan." She waved a hoof dismissively, as she did whenever she brought that up amongst her peers, before she realized Vinyl probably didn't know what that was.

"Hey, don't act like that's nothing! Horseshoelliard is very exclusive. I couldn’t believe it when they let me in."

Octavia covered a choke on her coffee with a little refined cough. "Excuse me, Vinyl? Could you repeat that?"

"Yeah, I went there too. I'm sure we didn't cross paths, though."

"Why are you so certain of that?" She wasn't sure what to say; it felt like the world was starting to close in a little on her. This — this destroyer of harmony and song went to Horseshoelliard, and even at the same time I was there? That can't be true, can it?

"Trust me, I'd have remembered. I'd probably have tried to follow you back to your dorm room." Ms. Scratch gave a shrug and chuckled.

What?! She couldn't have heard that right. Was she admitting she was a stalker?! What did that mean?

"You heard me. Don't go fishing for compliments." She stuck her tongue out and blew a raspberry.

"I kind of wonder how I never came across you before, there." This could simply be a lie. It must be! That makes more sense.

"Well, I spent a lot of time in theory classes. Practice wasn't really something that jibed with me; I can play a few instruments, but not terribly well. I spent more time doing arrhythmic analyses and transformation analyses. My concentration was in experimental music, actually."

She what? With what? Jibed what? Octavia swore she could feel blood rushing through her head now, that some thin tinnitus was at her ears just below the audible range. It's a lie! It has to be! Nopony like her could possibly have gotten through Horseshoelliard!

"Octavia?"

"Yes! Vinyl! I'm sorry. I just had a few memories coming to me and I got distracted." You evil lying bitch.

"Oh, no problem. I was asking what your concentration was?"

"Classical cello, but I suppose that's obvious." Octavia waved a hoof in the general direction of her cello case.

Vinyl nodded and had a look of . . . what was that? Envy? "I wish I could play. With my ADD I never really got past beginner-level with any specific instrument, even with the you-know-what." She tapped her horn with a hoof. "Practice was pretty much impossible for me. I'm lucky that Philomena Grass thought I had potential. I mean, I never really got into her stuff, but she told me I was destined for something better than washing out, and made me learn real music theory even though I couldn't excel with traditional instruments."

Vinyl gave another little shrug, and now Octavia got a little taste of what she wanted: Vinyl, vulnerable. "I mean, it's not like the stuff I'm doing in the clubs is, y'know, earth-shaking or anything, but . . . it's alive. It's not recording something and having to wait; I can see the effect my music has on the ponies that enjoy it."

Octavia smiled and nodded with effort. Your “music.” As if. And yes, the sweaty Philistines hump and do their 'raves' and such. Quite an accomplishment, really! "I think I understand a little.” She struggled for a moment to try to find an analogy that would suggest she believed and understood. “It's like the difference between rehearsal and recital. When the audience is there, you can really see some faces light up."

Vinyl chuckled and nodded again. Octavia wondered if she'd let Vinyl remember this, or if she'd tell her to forget and have it simply slip away. Probably better to have her forget, really — the last thing we need is all of this getting unraveled. Somehow she didn't want to make Vinyl forget the coffee and conversation, though. Focus, Octavia!

"So, anyway; not to sound eager or anything, but you said you wanted to play for me?"

There was a moment of hesitation, one Octavia did not understand. I have her here! Right in my grasp! All I have to do is start playing the piece and then I can plant suggestions! She pushed past it. "Oh, yes! Yes. I'm sorry. School days and all that." She drained the last of her cup of coffee and gestured towards the living room; some little thought of the nightly ritual came, but she reminded herself the evening was young. "Please, after you."

Octavia watched her confident prey trot along to her punishment.