You’re snacking on In Different Color, a fairy tale.
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The castle doctor paused as he reached for the chamber door’s rope handle. “You mustn’t keep the lord long,” said the old-haired man in a hush. “The revel drained him. He will need slumbers; many before he is well.”
Mr. Grey promised brevity. The doctor passed him a last warning look. Then he slid the door quietly open, ushered Mr. Grey in, and slid it shut behind.
Silken scenes of war unfurled on broad tapestries lining the walls of the great chamber. One showed a hoard of mallet-bearing warriors in silver-armored robes, riding atop warhorses against an evil flock of Sourbeak hoppers. Another long sheet of cloth showed a schematic breakdown of the mallet; complete with cross sections, dimensions and their variances, tempering and carving methods, and materials. Real mallets were displayed as well, suspended from hooks on the walls. Old driftwood mallets, and stoat-sized mallets, and mallets of rubber and metal.
Mr. Grey thought that the Hall of Mallets lived up to its name.
At the back of the hall the castle’s lord lay on a crescent moon bench, beneath a down comforter. His head rested on a scaly pillow beside a stone display. Another mallet took its own rest atop the stone, beneath its own comforter of dust.
The lord had a trim spiderhair goatee, an eyepatch, and an exhausted expression. The lord’s son and daughter stood beside him. They tugged at the comforter - the down one - and his goatee. They demanded he join them in ‘warrior training’. The children were still cursed, but only with the usual strain of childhood play.
The lord noticed Mr. Grey’s quiet entry. He whispered something to the children. They ran to another display case containing a set of toy mallets and began a mock melee. The lord beckoned Mr. Grey forth. Mr. Grey approached on quiet, office footsteps. The parchment lights burned steady. The light still couldn’t touch his greyness, but was tolerant enough not to flicker.
“I know your name without speech,” began the lord. He’d risen to speak, but sank quickly back into the wicker crescent. “You are Mr. Grey.”
“My lord Pygmy-Footed-Snake, this is an…”
“Just Snake if you please,” said the lord. Mr. Grey had seen it coming. “Full names slow the flow of words.”
“Whatever’s easy Lord Snake,” said Mr. Grey in compromise. “And I do agree. I won’t waste your rest.”
“You vanquished the Toymaker. Saved my clan from bliss. All my thanks to you.”
“Mine was a small part. Your soldiers did the real work, and Tom helped a bunch.”
“You refuse my gratitude?” Snake’s tired expression turned annoyed. His unpatched eye narrowed.
“I don’t refuse, certainly,” Mr. Grey stumbled through his words. He smoothed his little mustache. “My thanks for your thanks.”
Snake looked at him. “Now you seek reward.”
“I’m pleased just to help, but if it’s not a problem…”
Instead of answering, Lord Snake pushed a hand from under the down comforter. He reached and patted the dust one atop the stone table, until he felt the handle of the mallet. “Do you know this blunt’s legend?” The lord shook the handle, disturbing its quilt.
Mr. Grey examined the mallet. Aside from a diamond symbol chiseled into the barrel-face, and the dust thicker than beanmeal covering its surface, the mallet looked like any other. At least to Mr. Grey’s inexperienced eye.
“It looks like a fine weapon,” said Mr. Grey.
“This was Pygmy-Footed-Shrub’s. My greatest uncle. He fought in the war. The last king gave this mallet. A show of respect, from a worthy foe.”
Mr. Grey searched carefully for a response. “Were I a soldier, I’d have felt honored.”
The lord withdrew his hand from the hilt. He lifted his eyepatch and rubbed the scarred socket tiredly. Abruptly, he pointed at a wall tapestry; the one showing the battle with the Sourbeak Hoppers.
“You know this story, of the Sourbeak invasion? The battle at Blanc?” Lord Snake leveled his eye at Mr. Grey.
“It has a familiar ring.” Mr. Grey’s inexpressive face aided him in deceit. He’d looked on the tapestry without the least recognition.
“Forty-one soldiers. That is how many we gave; the Pygmy-Footed. They led the first charge. Sourbeaks soared from our mallets. None returned to us.”
“Was that where you first met Tom?”
“Who would this Tom be?”
“Well, he came with me. The curse got to him as well, so he’s asleep now. He’s a fighter too. He said you were acquainted..”
“I don’t know a Tom.”
Mr. Grey started stating how surely he felt there must be some miscommunication of names. Lord Snake ignored him and pointed out a fresh piece of dusty art. The lord waxed the newest history to Mr. Grey.
Mr. Grey listened patiently as Lord Snake recounted legend after myth. Each tale began with one of the various mallets, tapestries, or other fine relics displayed in the Hall of Mallets. The lord liked speaking of his clan’s legacy. And Mr. Grey made a good listener, though not as knowledgeable a one as Lord Snake might have wished.
Mr. Grey remembered, however, his promise to the doctor. He noticed Lord Snake yawned longer - his lids dropped further - between each historic lesson. Mr. Grey decided to interject.
He let Lord Snake recite several more histories after reaching this decision. Finally, at the end of a story about Lord Snake’s grandfather and his single-handed dispersal of the Long Faced Ogurs from the island (which later returned), Mr. Grey worked up his voice and said, “Excuse me, Lord Snake?”
“I know of your purpose here,” said the lord. He peeped at Mr. Grey through a half-closed eye. Mr. Grey couldn’t tell if the look was crafty, or simply sleepy.
“The meat of it is; I need a lord’s sponsorship. For fiddle contests.”
“I have told you history. Of my clan’s past deeds. Have you listened well?”
“I certainly have.”
“You could repeat what I said?”
“I certainly could,” said Mr. Grey truthfully.
“Then what is the common theme?”
Mr. Grey thought for a moment. Lord Snake let him think. “You have glory and honor,” Mr. Grey said. “Your clan values these.”
“Yes, that is the theme! We will not be dishonored.”
“I can understand.”
“Not by mediocre craft.” Lord Snake looked Mr. Grey directly in the eyes; calm, but firm.
Mr. Grey’s spirit drooped. “I believe I understand…”
“I won’t sponsor you.”
“I respect your decision. It’s dissa…”
“Allow me to speak,” said the lord, cutting Mr. Grey off. “I won’t sponsor you. I will pay your entry fee.”
Mr. Grey scratched his temple with a square fingernail. “Is… Is that a different thing?”
“The entry fee is costly, but all can pay it, and participate. You would risk no shame on me.”
Mr. Grey brightened. He heard a knock behind, and saw the attending doctor glaring through a crack in the door. Mr. Grey turned back to Lord Snake, who’d nestled in beneath the covers and closed his eye.
Mr. Grey quietly said, “That’s fine with me, lord. Innumerable ‘thank you’s. I’ll depart for now.”
Mr. Grey bowed with crossed arms and turned his back on Lord Snake. Just as he was leaving, he heard the sleepy man whisper, “Before I pay you, you will learn from the folkpole…”
This has been In Different Color, a fairy tale.
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