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Vast herds of cashmere clouds ambled across a field of hyacinth sky. No Wind nipped doggedly at the clouds’ tails. No Wind sheared them into storm words. No Wind drove them into lakes and forced them to guzzle wine, only later to spew it back as shivering rain. No Wind; and happy clouds. They wandered over a land in bloom. The shadows they dropped over field, forest, and stream were thin, almost invisible. Those idle shadows only added character to the light of an equally idle sun. Those gentle shadows, and the plants and beasts they mingled with, and the slow-moving clouds above, enjoyed a day of peace.
Then, on one patch of forest below, a shadow thickened. The spot of shade was small, and shaped like a dragonfly. It moved fast over the terrain. It grew. It darkened. It passed out of the forest, onto a wide lake of wine. It grew broader as it plunged a flock of Sourbeak Hoppers into darkness. The puzzled birds pointed their twisted beaks and beady eyes at the sky.
The dragonfly-shaped shadow came from a dragonfly-shaped object. It lurked behind the clouds, between the herds and the bright sun. The clouds noticed the shape. Through them passed a ripple. Through the herd a seam split. The clouds bolted before the predator.
The shape swooped through the woolen sheet’s new hole. Not a dragonfly, not even close.
The castle windmill.
The windmill dropped from the iris sky through the fleeing fleece. It body-slammed toward the wine lake. It soared in a sudden turn. It straightened. It glided heavily through the sky. The wooden blades whirled around the axle, the blustery Wind spinning them madly as she flung the windmill through the air. She carried it over the lake as she’d carried her dandelions over the folkpole. But faster, and with creaking.
Inside the straining wood and leather body, the millstone whirred like a dragon engine. Sparks burned leopard spots on every surface. The sleepy soldiers pulled their blankets grouchily overhead. Both to cover their ears against the noise, and to shelter their faces from the burning motes.
Mr. Grey and Tom stood on the dust-floor at the top of the steps. They peered through a diamond-shaped window. Just an arms-length beyond, the windmill fan whirred. It threw heavy air against their faces. Behind him, Mr. Grey’s anchor shawl stuck out in a vibrating line. Through the propeller’s shuttering view, Mr. Grey and Tom looked over the wide expanse of wine.
“We’re making good time,” said Mr. Grey. He shouted over the grinding stone, whirring blades, and snapping leather. “We should be in town by dark.”
Tom leaned on his mallet and yawned into his flapping handkerchief. “If The Wind stays with us, yes.”
From the bottom floor a soldier called, “Can you turn the fan down some?”
Another added a loud mumble. “That party was a bender. Let us get some sleep.”
Mr. Grey edged his face close to the window. The spinning blades added vibrato to his voice. “Wind, we’re grateful for all this. You’re helping us out. Just one quick notice; we’ve got some sleepers in here. Think you could ease up?”
The gusting ceased. The blades slowed. The mill dropped suddenly towards the wine. Mr. Grey, Tom, and the people on the floor below floated suddenly, weightlessly, with the mothy dust.
With equal abruptness the Wind blasted once more. The blades rattled into motion. The mill skimmed the wine’s surface, then soared back among the bolting clouds.
“What was that you said?” asked The Wind, billowing sarcastically. “Hard to hear and fly at once.”
Mr. Grey’s voice purred in the blades. “Nothing, carry on.”
Mr. Grey groped along a banister to the other side of the dust-floor. He peered through one of the cracks between wood and leather. The island shrank behind them. Mr. Grey saw tiny figures moving along the thin line of the shore, near where they’d left the boat. One form looked especially round and beardy. Mr. Grey pictured the look of foiled awe on Gourd’s face as he followed the mill’s flight.
Through the wall crack Mr. Grey had a lovely view of those shrinking figures moving along the shore. The crack failed, however, to warn him of the winged shapes following in the windmill’s shadow. Mr. Grey knew nothing of the shapes - flocking to the airborne structure like barn cats to the morning slop - until they fell upon the soaring mill.
An avian cloud swarmed suddenly at the mill’s leather walls and churning propeller. Mr. Grey twitched his eyes to the diamond window. Tom stuffed his kerchief into a pocket and lifted his mallet from the floor. Outside, a flock of Sourbeak Hoppers dove and squawked in the air. They kept pace easily with the heavy mill. They ripped at it with their crooked beaks. One slipped past the blurred blades and poked through the window. Tom smacked it back with a fist and slammed the window shut with a snap. The Wind’s wail faded, though she still gusted through the wall cracks.
“Are we over their nest grounds?” asked Mr. Grey. He groped along the banister to stand by Tom.
“That must be the case. We’ll just keep the window shut. They’ll go away soon.” Tom leaned heavily on the mallet. He looked away through a wall crack. Mr. Grey saw the dark bags under Tom’s eyes, still avoiding his own. He wanted Tom to rest, but he wasn’t sure they could simply weather the feathered siege.
In the stretched walls all around him, twisted beaks punctured through and left jagged rents. Pale daylight rushed through the cuts and shone on the mill’s intestines. From the floor of cranky soldiers below a groggy voice shouted, “Will someone put that light out?” Outside, Mr. Grey heard a frequent, repeated two-tone sequence; a flat whack followed by a pained squawk. The Sourbeaks flew repeatedly at the blades and were summarily homerunned. But through the stringy new rips, Mr. Grey saw the impacts damaged the blades as much as the birds. The shuttering propeller now spun with an off-kilter wobble. Even in the flickering image, Mr. Grey noticed cracks forming.
Under this continuous assault of sour beaks and one-legged talons, the mill started to sink. Mr. Grey grabbed the nearest scaffold as the dust floor lurched. The Wind threw herself into the propeller with typhoon vigor. The millstone screamed beneath them, the soldiers raised a group wail. The Wind’s renewed effort kept the mill aloft, but Mr. Grey heard her cry from outside, “You’re turning quickly flightless! You’ll be in the drink, unless these pests leave.”
Mr. Grey looked worriedly through the cracks and the disintegrating propeller. In the distance he saw the verdant edge of Wine Medo’s mainland. A long span of wine lay between them and that edge. Fermented waves rose and crashed in huge crests under The Wind’s furious blowing. The Sourbeaks only grew angrier at the bashing of Wind and blades. They slashed the thin mill walls to hangnail ribbons. Mr. Grey didn’t think they’d reach land.
He looked around the fast-lightening windmill interior. He tried to think over the clamor of blowing Wind and tearing beaks. The soldiers and Lord Snake only went on complaining; they remained wrapped in their blankets. They’d be of no help. Mr. Grey glanced at his warrior-friend, but Tom had dropped into a deep sleep. He snored heavily over the hubbub. The heavy wooden mallet lay abandoned on the scaffold beside him, like a tapped keg with a long spigot.
Mr. Grey’s confidence plumbed an astonishing new depth as he wrapped his dry hands around the mallet’s handle. He heaved the weapon. The barrel-head rose off the scaffold just a hair, then thudded back. Mr. Grey thought he could lift it with maximum effort. Maybe even swing, in an uncontrolled way. With no other plan appearing, Mr. Grey determined to open the window and bat at the birds nearest the propeller. It wasn’t a great plan, he knew it wasn’t. He had a better chance of hitting the blades than the birds. It was, however, the only plan in stock.
He hefted the mallet onto his shoulder. He threw the diamond window open. He looked outside. The Sourbeaks, seeing a wide new opening, flocked to Mr. Grey. Some whacked into the propeller, damaging it further. Others managed to flutter awkwardly around the blades. The birds closed. One squawked at Mr. Grey’s face of stone. He readied a swing.
But suddenly, the birds turned. They flew away from the Window, away from Mr. Grey. They flew from the mill altogether. Mr. Grey thought that they’d gotten beyond Sourbeak territory. The birds flew toward the mainland, however, not back the way they’d come.
Then Mr. Grey saw the truth. By then the mill had closed some of the distance to land. He now saw some of the mainland’s features, its hills and polka-dot ponds. Dancing in the cloud-words over the fields of chicktails and forests of poetrees, Mr. Grey saw a familiar butterfly-kite. When he looked to the grass below he saw children, very like the ones he’d seen in the park at Starharbor. The children drew the Sourbeaks off with their kite. Mr. Grey saw the tiny flick of their arms as they waved up at the flying mill. Mr. Grey waved back. He sighed and let the mallet fall.
The Wind gushed freely through the tattered walls. She pushed with all her force against the blades. They sank towards wine regardless. Mr. Grey saw, however, the sandy mainland shore edging closer. He called out, “Do keep it up Wind. We’re almost to the mainland.”
They sank lower. Mr. Grey heard the crashing waves.
And lower. Mr. Grey tasted the tannic spray.
And they slipped, gently, into wet, wavy sand.
This has been In Different Color, a fairy tale.
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