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There lay, upon the satiny fabric of the night sky, a tinsel of stars. There lay, close by the rooftop garden of rich dark soil, a nebula of candles. The Wind never said if she flew in the high space between those distant sparks, but the candles spoke of her on the rooftop. They flickered in her breeze. The outer sky gave no smell, carried no sound, and nipped at any visitors’ skin. The rooftop air smelled like ice, and trilled with bell bugs, and filled the ceremony attendees with night’s eye-widening vigor. Like moths, they gathered their chairs around the largest candle - a veritable Mars in that lower lighted cluster - and spoke in sleepy, happy whispers.
“I don’t think a Wine Do’s ever gone so perfect, do you dolly?” Asked one old woman of another.
The other answered, “I think this young man needs to come back. And again after that. And after that. And that’s all I’ll say, dearie.”
The mars-candle-glow did not quite reach their robes. It shone only on the pleased wrinkles of the elders, and the broadly smiling face of Tom, and Mr. Grey’s face of stone. Their heads orbited round the large candle-star, disembodied.
Mr. Grey’s shoulders collapsed and quivered as they released held tension. No one saw it in the dark. “Thank you miss, and thank you miss,” His grey face nodded at the two wrinkled ones in turn. “The songs were enough?”
“Grand! Listen how he talks. Spectacular m’boy.” The candlelit face on his right beamed. A fist in the dark dealt his shoulder a surprise-blow of approval.
“Pots would be happy,” said Tom.
“Now get comfy in that wicker. share some nightcaps with us,” said one wrinkled face. The other faces nodded. Mr. Grey thought of refusing. He had noticed a coming storm. In that twinkling field of high emptiness above them, over the distant patch where the wine lakes had slipped in a bloody sunset, the stars met their end. Dense clouds left there by The Wind hid the lights from view.
But perhaps the clouds aren’t drifting this way, thought Mr. Grey. He wanted to relax. He thought it a good moment to put aside thoughts of treasure payment, and pursuits of Jodee Coats. He felt it decent to share a glass of ritual wine.
So Mr. Grey did relax, and did put aside other cares, and did share in the wine.
“Now if we want to be completely traditional,” began one old face.
“And we do!” put in another.
“Yes, we do. And under the traditional way, now’s the moment we’d trade stories.”
“And after, we’d cross our arms, and bow at each other.”
“I was getting to that! We’d bow, after the stories were done, and we’d all say, ‘We have flushed our cheeks; together under the stars; farewell till next meet.’ If we’re doing the full traditional, that is.”
“And we are,” agreed the other three.
“I’ll start my dearies. No interrupting,” The wrinkled face which spoke first, probably the host’s, began her story.
“Once there was an old candy farmer and his children. They lived at the edge of a lake, of course, and drew up coral from under the waves. The wife no longer existed, but that’s of no importance. The coral grew in flavorful shapes, and crazy patterns, and the farmer and his children lived wealthy and happy. The children did bicker sometimes. But then, that’s to be expected.
“Well it happens my dearies that one day the farmer dove beneath the surface of the wine - and you can be sure he always held his breath so he never got too happy - and found there was no coral. The dark bottom was all sand and shiny pebbles. Shiny pebbles weren’t circulated as currency at the time either. The farmer found himself in bad straits. When he told his children, they cried. They bickered worse than ever children should.
“Now since hunger is alarming, especially when it goes for long periods of time, the farmer consulted a wise enchanter. The enchanter lived nearby, in an Oh Well, as wise enchanters always do. This enchanter told the farmer he must go to the island in the exact middle of the lake. The enchanter told him, on that island would be an old poetree. The enchanter told the farmer that one of the roots of this poetree must have grown too long, got into the wine lake, and poisoned all the coral.
“The enchanter told the farmer more; that he must swim across the wine to the island, without swallowing any wine, which was, again, poisoned. And wasn’t the farmer glad then that he had always held his breath, and hadn’t swallowed one poison drop in his earlier swimming! Well, the enchanter said that he must find a rusty axe - left on the island from the foresting days - and cut the long root of the old tree beside the lake of wine. Then the coral would again grow.
“The enchanter gave the farmer a final piece of advice. On this island, he said, lived the Ogurs called ‘Long Faces’. Kind spirits of the island forest. To see one would give the farmer good luck, but only if he heeded their words. Then the enchanter told the farmer to get gone, because his - the enchanter’s - kettle was about to boil.
“When the farmer returned home to tell the children his task he found them bickering. He tried to calm them. But they were very hungry, and very cranky. The farmer set out quite readily.
“The farmer swam across the lake. He took no gulps of wine and wasn’t poisoned. When he reached the island the forest of poetrees seemed dark and imposing. He wanted to swim away. Then he felt his stomach grumble. So he pressed on, deep into the branchy shadows of the woods. For a long time he stumbled in the thickets and the shade. Every root seemed so huge and long and prone to tripping, that he felt sure each one must be the one sought-after. The farmer couldn’t think how he’d ever find the right root.
“At one point in this search he stumbled very badly, and cut his foot. It was not a dangerous cut, but it stung. It made the farmer angry. But his anger turned to delight, for he found that he’d stumbled over a rusty axe; just the sort the old enchanter had told him he’d need. Hefting the knotty wood handle, the farmer turned on the tripping roots.
“He readied a swing, thinking to chop all of them,. Just to be on the safe side.
“But at the instant before he swung, a Long Face appeared! It swam out of the space between poetree trunks. Its face was like a person’s, but longgggeeeeerrrrrr. It looked at him, and smiled longly, and told him that he mustn’t chop all the roots, only the right root, or his family would suffer unspeakable misery and starvation.
“The farmer remembered the other thing the old enchanter had said; that he must heed the Long Faces. He set the axe back at his side. He meant to ask the long face which root was the right root, but it had vanished.
“The farmer set about circling the island, searching for a particularly old tree with particularly long roots. He found one, where the root wriggled thickly into the soil, just before the shore. He hefted the axe, but the long face appeared again, and told him that was the wrong root.
“So the farmer walked some more, and grew hungrier, and more tired. He found another root like the first, thick and burrowing at the sand. Up came the axe, out came the Long Face. Wrong root. The farmer grumbled, but went on again.
“Finally, he came to a very long root indeed. It dangled from a small cliff over the wine lake. He looked at it, and saw that it did not touch the wine. He wondered if it was the right root. The long Face appeared a final time, and told him, yes, that was the root. That root touched the wine at high tide.
“With a single mighty blow, the farmer severed the root. He thanked the Long Face. Leaving the axe on the island, the farmer returned to his farm. When he arrived, the coral candy had regrown, and his children had stopped their bickering. And the farmer and his family were rich and full forever afterwards.”
The old woman's story worked in tandem with the ritual wine on Mr. Grey’s senses. The central candle burned higher and wider, the smoke it sent up gathered in the dark on the edge of Mr. Grey’s sight, and the wax flowed in honey waterfalls. Thoughts of his payment melted from Mr. Grey in that mire. Thoughts of Jodee Coats remained. Mr. Grey wondered about the land of Glory Days. He wondered if Jodee Coats had changed it, as she’d changed Wine Medo. He wondered which words could convince her to fill out her parchmentwork. He wondered what would happen if she refused. He wondered if she’d come home.
“You’re turn, mister-master-enchanter!”
Mr. Grey focused on the blurry circle of floating faces, trying to discern which was the master-enchanter who’s turn it was to tell a story. Mr. Grey’s senses sharpened when he realized every face had its eyes fixed on him.
“I reallytruly couldn’t,” said Mr. Grey in a blanched voice of fluctuating tempo.
“Oh yes you can!” said one of the women.
“I’m not much for it. Telling tales and that business.”
“Was mine overly eloquent, dearie? Just tell us a fun memory.”
“I… don’t have a story.”
“You have several, just in our time together,” said Tom.
Scanning his muddy mind, Mr. Grey supposed he did have one or two encounters he’d survived since arriving in Wine Medo. He thought he could frame one of those as a story. At the same time the wine loosened his mind - the brisk night air filled him with energy.
In an unusual turn of events, Mr. Grey agreed to talk at length. He told them about his trip on the road of many branches, his robbery by Gourd, his rescue by Tom.
Since that story has already seen form in a preceding chapter, it needn’t be retold here. It is sufficient to say that - although he’d been ill-treated by Gourd and his bandits - Mr. Grey made an effort to condemn no one in his telling. Not being an accomplished skald, Mr. Grey’s version lacked some elements others might have added. He included no jocular descriptions of attacks and fighting maneuvers, such as Tom would’ve given had it been his turn. Nor did he include elaborate schemes or hidden motives, the kind certain to appear in any tale of Honeydew’s.
But Mr. Grey told a story. And in his own way. That was enough.
Another old woman went after that.
When she finished, Tom told one. Tom told a story of when he and his Mallet Master spent 12 days in the otherworld of the giant spiders, which to them seemed like 12 epochs. He said this master had stopped existing recently, and had been very wise, and taught Tom all he knew of Mallet combat. Tom told them he was glad to carry on this master’s legacy.
Then another old woman went.
The circle of faces traded stories long into the smoky, candlelit night. Mr. Grey worried not a pebble about treasure, or violin-playing, or cologne, or travel plans. He warmed himself by the candles, drank the wine, and enjoyed the stars… And the company.
But eventually the faces began to yawn louder and longer. Tom’s face rose to Tom’s full height. He said, “We have flushed our cheeks; together under the stars; farewell till next meet.” Mr. Grey repeated this, then the ladies.
Before any awkwardness arose from them requesting their payment, the homeowner beckoned Mr. Grey and Tom to wait a moment. She bustled for her treasure purse in the dark. A moment later she stuck her hand into the light of the low-burning candle. In it, she held their payment for the job.
Four feathers.
“Now you treat yourselves to a nice gondola-ride, dearie,” she said sweetly.
Mr. Grey promised they would. He accepted the payment, and he and Tom bid farewell to the old ladies. As Mr. Grey and Tom turned, their faces vanished from the light shed by the Mars candle. As they walked away, into the dark, Mr. Grey considered their payment.
Four feathers.
Enough to buy a candy meal for two. Maybe three.
Mr. Grey realized they’d never reach Glory Days. Not by working for small pay; not at small venues.
This has been In Different Color, a fairy tale.
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