You’re snacking on In Different Color, a fairy tale.
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The bucket pitched clumsily in a lake of cool, clear water. Down, down, down; in a cavern so far beneath the world’s grassy skin, beneath its earthen muscle, sunken into its stony bones, that it might be mistaken for that Bottomworld over which the grey statue had guarded. The bucket ship swayed at a fixed spot in this subterranean deepness. Its anchor was the long chain, which stretched between a lime-crusted pulley wheel in the cave pool, and the mechanism in the well’s roof, high, high, high above.
Mr. Grey blew out the humming wick inside the parchment lantern. The shadow-fish vanished, but a light remained. Real fish - translucent, glowing, living images of the lantern shades - swam under the lake’s window surface. They cast gentle, wavy moonshine through the water, underlighting the awed faces of Mr. Grey and Tom.
The two faces wandered…
…And looked over hill upon hill of clotted objects. The wide pool, far beneath seas and ponds and flowing streams of wine, had massed the dragon’s-share of memories dropped down the Oh Well. Mr. Grey and Tom’s bucket boat sent ripples over the water. These ripples plashed against piles of footwear, clothing, cookware, household furniture, and every other valued possession imaginable, all mortared with fuzzy sapphire moss. The echoes of the ripples made up for all the echoes lost in the descent down the well. Mr. Grey and Tom felt caught in the middle of endless, whispery, gossipy splashes.
Though many shiny pebbles and novelty spoons and holiday cards added their bulk to the piles; though several a stately cat skull or Bottle-of-Thunder topped the gathered remembrances; Mr. Grey and Tom felt no temptation to plunder. These treasures had lost their function as currency. In being given up by a wandering, wishful hand; in plunging noiselessly through the dark; in striking the water with an echoing cannonball, the newest member of the memory family; in taking up residence on a perfectly-sized niche of land in a community of neighboring objects; in settling on that plot and in making a home of that plot; in passing time below while countless sunrises and sunsets passed in the world above; in doing all of this, these remembrances lost their spot in the economies of kings or queens.
“Different kinds of riches,” was how Tom put it. His words lingered in the fish-lit chamber.
Mr. Grey said, “So much treasure left behind. How long has it massed?”
“Not treasure, but memories.”
The two of them observed a respectful silence. Their echoes were long in fading.
A lonely drop of water on his grey hair interrupted Mr. Grey’s solemnity. He looked up, ineffectively, at the inky hole in the chamber’s roof. He saw only the twin strands of the chain ascending out of sight.
Mr. Grey returned his gaze to the standard horizontal vector. He said, “I suppose that’s her abode.” He pointed with a straight arm and a stiff finger at one carefully cultivated pile.
It began beneath the glossy water’s surface. A foundation of memories so old and limescale and uniform in appearance, that they became an ordinary island of sediment. Atop this island squatted a large, observatory-shaped house. This house amassed from hundreds upon thousands of rusted and rotting weapons; more swords, mallets, clubs, blackjacks, guns, nets, knives, spears, and slingshots than a shoulder might be shaken at. These lost implements of bygone battle were fastened together by stiff and crusty clothing: old sweaters, favorite pairs of pants, and of course, robes. Picture frames, books, and heavily-scored cutting boards shingled the rounded roof. Mr. Grey saw a small garden plot tucked onto the sediment island beside the house. A variety of dotted, striped, and tie-dyed mushrooms sprouted from a gathering of unalike pots.
One enormous, faded portrait of an elderly gentleman with a grand mustache served as the door, complete with a horseshoe handle.
As Mr. Grey and Tom studied the house, this door opened with a portentous creak. It was a squeal out of myth, a sound only feasible for a picture frame logged with untold ages of memory-enriched water. The faded image of an old man slid from sight. In its place appeared the distinct image of an old woman.
In many respects, this old woman looked like many old women do. She had conventionally-thin hair. The backs of her hands were appropriately wrinkled. Her spine bent at an angle most would agree was ‘venerable’.
In some respects, she departed slightly from the norms of her age. Her robes - still in the high-cropped, folded style - looked like an old wooden roof’s coat of moss. They were made of densely-woven cat hairs, with Jheri-curl strands springing out around the sleeves. She wore sandals made from old wall tickers and loofah fibers.
In one major respect, the woman stood at extreme odds with the elderly community. This was her face. On it, there lay not the slightest trace of eyes. Where eyes normally were on most faces, on her they simply were not; as if, in the deep dark cave, her own set had grown, and grown, and grown some more, until there hadn’t been enough face to hold them, and they’d fallen off and rolled away, into the still lake. As if to account for this lack of one sense, her head supported an enormous nose, and wide ears.
Facing immediately in the direction of Mr. Grey and Tom, she said, “Few guests come this way. Either of you two tried beans? I got some cooking.” When she spoke, her words reversed the normal echo pattern. They began quietly, but grew until they exploded off the stone ceiling and walls. Then they suddenly stopped altogether. The last thing Mr. Grey heard before the sound ceased was the word “cooking” rebounding in his skull.
Tom said, “Such a kind offer! Beans are classy eatery. I gladly accept.”
Mr. Grey said, “Generous indeed. I do think I’m quite full now, but very kind, miss…?”
The old woman’s ears drooped. “These ain’t common fayre,” she began; first inaudibly, then with the building echo. “You sure you wanna say ‘no’? You’d be missing out.”
Tom nudged Mr. Grey’s shoulder, making the bucket rock unsteadily. Mr. Grey held firm. “My thanks, but I’m good,” He added hastily, “Did they grow in your garden? It’s a fine plot, miss?...”
“Nesting-Inside-Pots,” said the old woman, giving her name. “But that’s a flower garden. My efforts at one,” she added with a smile.
Mr. Grey thought the mushroom growth picturesque. “A beautiful thing…”
Mr. Grey lost track of his thought and forgot to use the rural accent. But the old woman understood. “It’s a side hobby. Nothing like they got above. But your praise is kind.”
“It’s the first I’ve seen. I think that makes it the best. My name’s Mr. Grey.” He instinctively jerked his hand for a handshake before remembering the broad water between them.
“You new around here? There’s flower plots everywhere. At least, last I knew.”
Tom answered her. “Recent culture change. Flower gardens aren’t in vogue. It’s a sorry state.”
Mr. Grey wanted to get back on track. And wanted out from beneath the droplets of water regularly plinking onto his scalp. And wanted off the swaying bucket. He said, “Sorry to impose. We had some business you see. Is this a good time?”
“All times are good here! We’ll jaw on your travel cause, but after supper.” The word ‘supper’ reverse-echoed until it exploded in their ears and rippled over the water.
Tom smiled at the suggestion. Mr. Grey, however, had sudden misgivings about dining with this eyeless witch and asking for her teaching. In Mr. Grey’s defense, eating-with and learning-from eyeless witches lay well outside Starharbor norm. He searched across the fish-lit cave and memory mounds for some form of delay. The bucket creaked beneath his shifting. The old crone caught the sound on her wide ears. “You come here for greed?” she asked suddenly. “If treasure’s your only aim, I’m no helpful host.”
Mr. Grey injudiciously said, “That’s our long term goal…”
He didn’t finish the thought. The old woman reached quickly behind her, into the dark interior of the observatory-house. In her long wrinkled hand, she drew forth an ancient, warped violin. The instrument’s neck was long and curled, like the horn of some abyssal cloven creature. She brought a bow made of silvery unicorn hairs to the strings.
Tom hastily completed Mr. Grey’s thought. “Not by stealing, ma’am. This man needs fiddle lessons. I’m Tom, by the way.”
The eyeless witch stood motionless in the portrait door of the rusted-weapon house, the unicorn-hair bow poised over the angled strings of her goat-horn violin.
There was a pause. Water plinked on Tom and Mr. Grey’s scalps.
Nesting-Inside-Pots rested the violin against the door, and beckoned.
This has been In Different Color, a fairy tale.
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