Dragon Ferry - Appetizer
Treats of The Boatman
You’re snacking on In Different Color, a fairy tale.
See The Menu for more treats.
“This dragon ferry,” said Honeydew to the partisan beside her, “how often’s it come?” She spoke from her mouth’s corner. Her eyes were splayed. They fixed on the lazy, wavy, burbling river of glowing lava.
“Every dozen moments?” Honeydew went on distractedly. “Or only for a certain number of passengers?” The partisan beside her held silent. The fiery stream hissed and gurgled against the solemn shore.
“Well?” asked Honeydew sharply. The gleam in her dark eyes winked out as she turned them from the bright flow to the taciturn partisan.
It was Candlehead.
“Oh, right,” said Honeydew. Candlehead faced her with waxy blankness. He had his shoulders thrown heroically back; one draped with his tattered robe, the other supporting the pipes of bronze.
A normal partisan, standing further along the rocky shore and slipping into a robe that crinkled, called out, “He can’t talk.”
“I don’t want him to.”
“His head’s a candle.”
“That’ll do it.”
Mr. Grey tugged mechanically on the zipper for his own crinkly shield-robe. He paused - the zipper slid back down - and craned his face a fraction nearer the lava. The hot river leant its molten glow to Mr. Grey’s face, flushing his stone cheeks. He asked, “What’s this ship’s track record?”
Nuggets sat on a jagged stone outcrop halfway between Mr. Grey and Honeydew. He wore an absent air. His eyes settled on the pallid, translucent flowers growing on the rocky shore; numerous as limbs felled by a sulking Wind.
“Should be pretty soon,” Nuggets said with his curled hair angled at Honeydew. He tilted it with a bounce toward Mr. Grey. “And I’m sure it’s safe, as long as we wear the robes,” he flapped the sleeves of his shield-robe. It glinted and crinkled. As a last note he said, “And give proper fare.”
This set the other partisans arguing over ‘proper fare’. All but Candlehead. He simply posed, soundless and heroic, at their center. But the others argued like oracle-spider-heads. One said four shiny pebbles was two too much; another, that nothing short of a bookmark would get them aboard. Mr. Grey paid neither partisans nor fare much mind. His shield-robe zipper still fought him to stay undone. But the way Nuggets sat so despondently troubled Mr. Grey the most. The downy-cheeked youth hid his budding beard behind two despondent palms. He hadn’t talked recently about Jodee or Odormoats. When he did speak, it was in a nonsenseless, glum tone.
Mr. Grey began rehearsing, in his head, the droll story of the chronological document organization. He wished to lift Nuggets’ spirits.
Tom beat him to it.
Tom had stood far from the blistering shore. Now he strode up behind Nuggets. His shield-robe lay unworn, draped over a shoulder. Sweat gushed from industrious glands on his brow and under his pits, but Tom stood beside Nuggets all the same. He patted the young man’s shoulder and said, “You seem at six and seven.”
“Terrible numbers,” put in Honeydew, still watching the lava.
“I’m just a disappointment,” said Nuggets. “At the Oracle, I made us look bad. Misrepresented Jodee.”
Tom gave him two sweaty pats. “You all learned what you wanted. So you succeeded.”
“But our milk wasn’t taken…”
“So you used it otherwise; for a better cause. That showed quick thinking.”
Nuggets brightened; he wagged his head and jumped to his feet from under Tom’s hand. He said, “You’re saying it right, no point in sulking about. HEHEHEHEHE.” He made as if to dart toward the river, but the sizzle on his boot checked his step.
Mr. Grey added, “Thank you for the milk, it was a fine gift. I won’t say ‘better cause’, though. That’s too kind of you.”
Mr. Grey had directed his last words to Tom. Tom must not have heard. The sweaty man in his zeppelin robe now set his eyes where Nuggets’ had been; on the pale flowers. He let out an awed sigh, crouched down, and sniffled over the blooms. Mr. Grey gave him a troubled lo… Mr. Grey expressed conc… Well at any rate, Mr. Grey felt worried about Tom.
“How’s this work?” asked Honeydew. “Doesn’t the lava harden when it touches the bubble’s rim?”
Nuggets sprang over to her. “No no no no no. It’s more than lava. It’s the Flow of History! It spans Glory days; Panache to Prestige, then Pluck and Antiquity. Through bubble tunnels, the flow courses on. Some pretty sick lore as well. Sun Fish and Rain Fish, working jointly…”
“Ugh, forget I asked,” said Honeydew. She pulled out her mirror and triple-checked her shield-robe. “Tell me when the boat’s here.”
“Oh I think we’ll know. They say it’s a loud vessel.”
Mr. Grey heard a raspy commotion from the road leading to the ferry shore. He looked. His grey eyes walked along the dirt road, stopped, and shook pupils with the wide, darting eyes of Ms. Maysey. She scurried to where Mr. Grey stood in conflict with his zipper. Ms. Maysey waved one hand in hello. With the other she pulled from its pocket her pipe. She held the pipe between her teeth and rifled her robe for the striker. But the pipe flared up on its own, ignited by the Flow of History’s radiant heat. Ms. Maysey jabbed the bit between her lips and caught her breath on the smoke.
“Hello Ms. Maysey,” said Mr. Grey. “Come to board the ferry?” He knew the answer even as he asked; she wore no crinkling, heat-shielding robe.
“Hello Mr. Grey! Goodness no. Not for me, journeying over lava rivers. Can you imagine? With my constitution?” she coughed out a plume.
“I think you’d be alright. They have us wear these robes for protection.”
“It is boiling. I’m surprised this kind of thing’s King’s Law.”
Mr. Grey turned his eyes away and thumbed the casing of his pocket ticker. He said, “I’m sure the boat man has his captain’s license.”
“Well, luck on the journey. I heard you were leaving. Thought I’d see you and your friend group off. As for me, it’s on to Panache. There, tourists can move about a little. I hope to do some sightseeing, to feel like I got something done. I’ll still need to relax here and there. My health, you know.”
“Luck to you as well, Ms. Maysey.”
“Oh, and I brought you this for your travels,” She handed him a thumb-sized crystal bottle. “Protective cologne. But stone-scented. Fits you particularly.” Ms. Maysey chuckled at her own joke.
Mr. Grey pulled his arms from the shield-robe, undoing all the progress he’d made in his battle, and accepted her gift. “Won’t you need it?” he asked. “If you’re mingling with other tourists?”
“Not to worry Mr. Grey, not to worry. I’ve got my own bottle. And my pipe.” she coughed out another plume as if to emphasize.
“Then thank you, Ms. Maysey. Your health and safety.”
Ms. Maysey met Mr. Grey’s stiff handshake with a light one of her own. She darted suddenly back the way she’d come, with her mouse curls bouncing. Just before disappearing around the bends of the dirt road, she turned and shouted. “Word of warning: that Ordus fellow was looking for you. Oh, and those ‘Finders for Hire’ too!” Ms. Maysey managed to time her escape perfectly. Her voice reached Mr. Grey, but she disappeared before he could respond.
Mr. Grey walked over by Honeydew. She folded her arms, and observed, “She came and went quick.”
“I hope it’s only a misunderstanding,” said Mr. Grey. He renewed the fierce struggle to tighten the crinkly, wrinkly, loose fabric of his shield-robe with its belligerent zipper.
“Did far-darter Maysey bring trouble?”
“I don’t know. But best if we get underway soon.” Mr. Grey leaned as closely as he felt comfortable over the slow-flowing lava, and looked up and down the stream. His face took on the Bottomworld gargoyle look; stony and evil. He saw no boat.
“Don’t bother. I’ve been watching. We’re on boatman’s-time.”
“Even though we have to wait, and even if there’s some communications failure with the Defense Force, I’m excited about this leg.”
“I hope Antiquity’s got something worth the trip. It’d be a change in pace. Something nobody back at Starharbor can say they’ve seen.”
“There’s history everywhere in the bubbles. The war with the king, eons ago. And all this ‘great fishes’ lore.”
“If you’re into it it’s there.”
“I’m glad we’re finally traveling together. It’s a team-vacation.”
“It feels safer,” she clicked obscurely. “I admit, I’m glad we have Tom’s mallet. Though lately he looks world-worn.”
Tom heard his name and stomped over. Each footstep sizzled. He blew his nose into a damp handkerchief, faced Honeydew, and said, “It’s healthy to quest. The bracing air refreshes, the trek fortifies.”
“The plan grew on me,” said Mr. Grey. “At the oracle’s temple. When Nuggets pleaded. And gave me the milk. It suddenly seemed faster; trail the followers, get to Jodee Coats. Shame you missed the temple Tom.”
Tom squeezed into his own reflective robe. Before he could answer, their attentions were stolen.
From up the lava river came a sound like thunder with a stutter. As one the dispersed eyes along the craggy shore looked up the flow. They saw, chugging slowly and noisily through the bubbling, steaming, earthen syrup, a ski-shaped watercraft. Water-wheel paddles at its sides threw glowing stone globs into the air, like jelly tossed by a Starharbor tram. The ski’s dragon engine gurgled as it paddled forth, with each stutter booming in time to the metal paddles smacking the lava. The engine and the blades pulled a long passenger-bed. A hooded, hunched, tiny form stood at the vessel’s helm.
Mr. Grey at last fought his shield-robe zipper to a nearly-closed truce. He walked to stand by the shore, with his violin coffin held in a tight-fisted clutch. Tom donned his own protection, and overtop he re-buckled his mallet holster. Honeydew stood ready, with only a single suitcase of robes and cosmetics. The three gathered with the partisans at the edge of the lava.
The short skiman lifted his sooty hands to his hood. He pulled it slowly back. He was a pipkin stoat. The stoat looked down at the gathering with the same beady eyes as the mender-of-signs had, back in Wine Medo. The exact same eyes, Mr. Grey thought. With one hand, the stoat stroked the same bristly chin borne by the tavern-fire-stoker, back in Starharbor. The exact same chin.
The stoat skiman looked upon them with a taciturn, rugged face. He said nothing, only held out a paw, pads up.
Now the partisans faltered. Mr. Grey heard them whispering behind him; one asked if three pebbles was appropriate. Someone suddenly pushed Mr. Grey by his spine, and he stumbled forward with a sizzle. Mr. Grey caught himself and brought himself up before the tiny, extended hand of the pipkin stoat.
“Ah, hello. Excuse me, have we met?” asked Mr. Grey.
The skiman did not answer.
“In any case, could you tell me the appropriate Antiquity fare?”
Still the skiman said nothing.
“Does… do two calcified bugs sound fair?” Mr. Grey dug inside his treasure purse, withdrew the bugs, and dropped them into the stoat’s hand.
The skiman maintained his silence. But, his hairy fingers closed over the bugs. Behind Mr. Grey one partisan groaned, and whispered, “Now we’re all expected to pay that much!”
The stoat skiman brought the calcified bugs to a treasure purse on the ski deck at his side. He loosened the drawstrings, set the additional treasure on top, and jumped up and down on the purse, stomping in the contents.
And, still not talking, the stoat gestured that Mr. Grey should board the craft. And Mr. Grey boarded. And the partisans, and Tom, and Honeydew as well, boarded, on the river of lava. And the coal-furred fingers of the skipper did tightly wrap the upright handles; and the coal-furred wrists did twist; and yea, the dragon ski did rev.
This has been In Different Color, a fairy tale.
Ready for the Entrée?
Still hungry? See The Menu.