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Mothy dust motes drifted through the scanty light inside the windmill. Some sank across blades of cold radiance slashing through cracks between the leather walls and wooden frame. Some buzzed by the warmer globe cast by a lonely candle; a candle burning with a flame so still that, if not for the fluttering dust, it might have been painted. Most of the dust simply sank. It dropped slowly, languidly, tiredly from wood-plank stairs and wood-beam scaffolds. It landed delicately and finally on the placid faces of sleeping soldiers.
Mr. Grey listened to the snoring troop. He listened to the turning windmill blades far above, creaking in unseen motion, like the rocking chair of a jilted old spinster long after she’s ceased existing. He sniffed - with protection - at the dusty floral air. He sneezed into his elbow.
“Would you be quiet?” The castle doctor spoke with hushed anger. “Why do you prevent their sleep, every chance you get?”
“Soften down, you old sawbones,” said Lord Snake mildly. He sat on a pile of threshold devices, beneath his comforter. He cast his one sleepy eye across the floor thick with dust and snoring soldiers. “He did not force us.”
“No, this was your choice.”
“You said ‘no walking’. Not in our weak condition. We are not walking.”
“What I said was, ‘no travel’. This is not resting.”
Mr. Grey sneezed again. The painted candle light flickered. Lord snake and the doctor looked at him. “My apologies,” said Mr. Grey in a whisper. “What’s this mill used in grinding? Not chicktails I hope.”
“This one is a flower mill,” said Lord Snake.
Mr. Grey looked over the flower-dust-coated soldiers. They slept on makeshift bedrolls in a tic-tac scatter across the reedy windmill floor. Against the doctor’s wishes Lord Snake had asked which of them wanted to visit Toscamo. He’d explained how Mr. Grey’s plan meant that they could travel without weary days crossing roads and lakes. Many soldiers - an uncomfortable number Mr. Grey thought - signed up to see his concert. Now they lay around the rolling millstone. The soldiers looked like so many small bundles of product; as though the heavy stone crushed people who wore too much perfume, instead of flowers.
The door to the mill opened to let in a larger rectangle of daylight. A servant slipped in and quietly closed the door. He tiptoed his way through the sleepers and moved before the wakeful ones: Mr. Grey, Lord Snake, the doctor, and Tom.
“Excuse me my lord,” began the servant in a voice barely audible above the snoring. “The foundation has been loosed, as you requested.”
Lord Snake turned his sleepy eye on Mr. Grey. “This is all your show. Are we ready to depart?”
“Let them go alone,” said the doctor. “This shall be no gentle trip.”
“Can we take off now?” asked Lord Snake, pointedly facing Mr. Grey. The servant slipped quietly from the mill after a dismissive wave from the lord.
Mr. Grey said, “We’re waiting on The Wind now. I believe she’s near.”
Tom said he’d check the top. He pumped his legs and mounted the stairs. More dust floated from the old wooden boards as they creaked beneath his heavy, lumbering feet. Mr. Grey, Lord Snake, and the castle doctor watched the candle flame. It burned stone-still. The wax ran in laminar smoothness.
Tom reached halfway up the creaky steps. Suddenly the dust floating in the blades of daylight danced with new vigor. The glow on the sleeping faces shifted as the candle flickered.
“Good day to you, Wind,” said Mr. Grey as she slipped through the wall cracks. Tom started back down.
“Playing around in old mills?” The Wind asked with an airy laugh. “That seems so childish. Aren’t these warriors? I wouldn’t expect them here. Or you, Mr. Grey.”
Lord Snake said, “This is my castle. My soldiers play where they like.” The doctor shushed the loudly-talking lord.
Mr. Grey added, “We had a design, a small idea we hatched. We thought you might help. Any chance you’re bored, looking for occupation?”
“I might be interested. Depends on the plot.”
“You remember the folkpole?”
“It was only days ago.”
“And the flowers you made fly?”
“My favorite kind. Ah, windmill-dandelions! They soar through the air.”
“We thought you might do that here, with the flower mill. Lift it and fly it,” The floor creaked beneath Mr. Grey, who shifted nervously on his feet.
Tom rejoined them at the base of the steps. He swiped sweat with his handkerchief, adding dust to the cloth. He said, “We need to reach Toscamo. To cross the wide lake, and the broad country. Can you fly us over there?”
“I thought the structure felt loose,” The Wind mused. The candle flickered, then fell still.
After a pause Mr. grey prodded her. “So, do you think you can help?”
The Wind fluttered inarticulately through the room for a moment. She danced over the sleepers and whirled the dust. Finally she said, “I don’t see why not. Sounds like a merry affair.”
Mr. Grey was surprised at her ready agreement. Suddenly the candle guttered out, leaving a thin trail of smoke drifting up through the dust. The Wind ran helter-skelter through the wall cracks. Some of the sleepers shifted.
“She had better be gentle,” muttered the doctor.
“Yes Wind, please do go gently,” added Mr. Grey.
The Wind went; not gently.
This has been In Different Color, a fairy tale.
‘Windmill - Dessert’ premiers on Thursday, 7/4.
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