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“A feast, a great feast! Six cheers for the mouse that left. And then six more cheers; the dragon returned!”
Pygmy-Footed-Snake’s words tinkled in the polished glassware, sitting on a frilled silken tablecloth, over a long wicker table, in the castle’s airy wooden dining hall. Tom caught the words at his seat down the table from Lord Snake. He cheered readily.
A servant standing by the kitchen sliding doors opened them to give the feast order. Before he could, the old castle doctor seated at Lord Snake’s side said, “There have been ample revels, be content with those. Now rest is needed.”
Mr. Grey - last of the four at the unnecessarily set table - spoke up between Lord Snake and Tom. “There’s no need for it.” He patted the violin coffin at his side. “I needed some direction, a few simple tips. No dramatic change; no observances needed.”
The lord grumbled and glared with his one eye at the doctor. He did, however, sag deeper in his moon-seat. “Well then, no feasting. We will have breakfast at least.”
This was agreed to by all, enthusiastically by Tom. The servant left to arrange the meal. The tall leather door shut with a hollow snap.
“Now then, when is this contest?” asked Lord Snake. He pulled his comforter cozily up to his spiderhair goatee.
“In a few days’ time,” answered Mr. Grey.
“I’ll be glad to watch. Toscamo will have strange looks. Epochs since I went.”
“Epochs longer too,” grumbled the doctor. “Too much of your sleep was lost. You must stay and rest.”
“I feel perfectly awake,” said Lord Snake. Of course he yawned after this statement; it being King’s Law to yawn after declaring a state of wakefulness. After a moment of pointed staring by the doctor, Lord Snake added, “Oh fine, you are right. I could use some naps.”
“I’ll still come with you,” said Tom. “I’m feeling recovered now.” Tom didn’t yawn; his statement was indirect enough that the law let it slide. Plus, he’d only been cursed with joy for a few moments of one night.
“I appreciate it Tom,” said Mr. Grey. Tom looked up at the ceiling strewn with cobwebs. Mr. Grey turned to his violin coffin. He fiddled absentmindedly with the latch.
“I am excited,” added Mr. Grey after a moment. “I’d like redemption; to make up for last concert.”
“Give us a sample,” suggested Tom, still with the meditative upward stare.
“I wouldn’t impose.” Mr. Grey took his hand from the coffin clasp. “Not on a peaceful breakfast.”
“You’ll have to play soon enough.”
Mr. Grey quietly pushed his seat back and stood. He walked to a nearby window, opened it with a wooden rasp, and let the morning light dance through the room’s dust particles. He looked out across the tranquil courtyard; at the parapets topped in flowers; at the mill turning lazily in a breeze of The Wind.
Lord Snake said, “This morning therefore, let us enjoy ourselves well.” He looked from the doctor, to Tom, to Mr. Grey by the window, with an inviting expression. He yelled toward the door. “Where is that breakfast?”
Tom smiled at Lord Snake. “You have a good cook. I’ve never eaten so well, or slept so deeply.”
“And you say we met before?”
Tom turned his eyes back to the ceiling. “Long ago I think.”
“I don’t recognize your face.”
“It has been ages. It’s likely you forgot me.”
“I never forget a face…”
“My whiskers are longer now.”
While Tom and Lord Snake debated their acquaintance behind him, Mr. Grey watched the windmill. The breeze turned the huge blades slowly, without a care. Mr. Grey thought idly on the upcoming concert. He wondered, how would his enchantments compare to those of real masters? The ones who had spent epochs with bow and string? Doubt snuck to the fore of his mind. He pushed it back with pleasanter thoughts. Just as the boot Ogur had taught.
“I know people from their voice, not by robe or shape,” Mr. Grey heard Lord Snake argue.
Tom replied, “Ahhh, but mine’s coarser these days. Too much wine fondness.”
“I still think it strange. You are the first I forgot.” The lord shifted beneath the comforter. “But let us move on. I promised treasure.”
Lord Snake clapped his hands twice, muffled beneath his quilt. The chamber door slid open instantly despite the sound’s softness. Two servants hustled in. Between them they carried a Treasure Chest™. The servants dropped it on the reed floor with a heavy thud and lifted the Eversafe lid. Inside was an enormous pile of feathers, calcified bugs, spice-jars, bookmarks, novelty spoons, cat bones, tie clasps, and old holiday cards; a hoard of treasure.
“That should be the right amount. For a concert fee.”
“And to buy tickets,” said Tom with a note of awe. “For the Glory Days passage. And loads of candy!”
“I do not think so,” replied Lord Snake. “The concert will exhaust it. Entry is pricey.”
“As are the tickets,” added Mr. Grey from the window. “A Treasure Chest™ wouldn’t pay.”
Tom asked, “What’s wrong with tickets? Or the concert entry fee? Why so expensive?” Mr. Grey knew Tom had no grasp of the king’s economy. He’d seen it in Tom’s haggling with the pawnbroker over the bandit’s whip.
“Scalpers raise prices,” explained Mr. Grey.
Lord Snake threw the comforter aside. He had a wiry body, over which he wore a silken, many-folded robe, quilted in the exact same pattern as the comforter. He said, “At present in any case, let us think of food. Where is the breakfast!”
A courtier threw the servant’s door open and rushed in. She carried no food. She apologized to the lord, but said she carried news of urgency.
Bandits were seen on shore, near Mr. Grey and Tom’s boat.
When the courtier finished speaking, Lord Snake said, “I shall send soldiers at once.”
“We have few ready just now,” said the old doctor dryly. “They are still sleepy.”
“I’ll chase them away,” said Tom. He jumped and grabbed for his mallet. The sudden rise left him reeling. Instead of hefting the mallet and marching through the door, he sank back into the crest of his chair.
Many tocks passed. Lord Snake rubbed his cheek awkwardly. “My deepest regrets. Rare to see bandits; here on Pygmy-Footed land.”
“We may know these ones,” said Mr. Grey. He kept his eyes on the windmill, but his thoughts were of Gourd and his beard.
“We will clear them after sleep. But your performance… You’ll have to miss it. You may keep the treasure gift.”
Tom thumped a fist on the table. The polished glassware chimed.
Mr. Grey turned from the window view. He said, “I do have one idea.”
This has been In Different Color, a fairy tale.
‘Windmill - Entrée’ premiers on Tuesday, 7/2.
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