Cowsowhorseacropolis - Entrée
Treats of Confrontation
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Heavy air surged through the corridor and smacked against Mr. Grey’s face; warm, wet, smelling like a hay pile after rain. Mr. Grey knew the air from his Abyssal Desert travail. He had expected to meet cowsowhorse breath again at some point in his existence. He had not, however, expected to find himself plunging one’s very throat.
Sepulchral clanging and a seething wheeze warned Mr. Grey to the corresponding intake of steam. He and Ordus flushed against the bolted struts lining the marble wall. The savory breath shook the fastenings in their metal holes. It pulled Mr. Grey’s anchor shawl loose and caught his violin coffin like a sail. Ordus’s trumpet gave a sharp squeak, and the diegeonary shoved a hurried thumb over the mouthpiece.
The breath-cycle ended. The air current faded with a distant rumble and a gasp. After a tock, they felt the concluding vibration of another cowsowhorseacropolis stomp. Ordus and Mr. Grey moved from the walls. They picked up where they’d left off, sneaking down the marble tunnel.
Ordus said, “We’ve got a moment before the next breath.”
Mr. Grey said, “I did hear you the last few times. Just letting you know.”
“Can you please walk softly? We’re trying to go unnoticed. And yeah, I know I’ve said it a few times. This time’s different.”
Mr. Grey tried muffling his office-hallway stride. “How’s it different?”
“Because, we’re here.”
They rounded a corner and stepped up to a circular threshold of metal riveted to marble. Beyond lay a room crowded with pistons, pipes, and spouting vapor. Tubes - glowing with heat or sparkling with rime - ran up the walls and across the ceiling like veins. Dense, hissing clouds and tree-like pillars of marble made hiding-spots throughout the wide, long, low-ceilinged space. Based on their threshold view, Mr. Grey and Ordus seemed to be alone. They listened, and heard only the spouting-vapor whistle.
Mr. Grey and Ordus entered the lungs of the Cowsowhorseacropolis colossus.
Mr. Grey ducked a burst of scalding steam. He crouch-walked from under it and asked, “This is where we’ll find Jodee?” He looked around with usual stoicism, not at all reflecting his inward doubts.
“Of course not! What made you think that?”
“You said we were ‘here’. I thought that meant Jodee’s throne… helm… saddle-place.”
“Sounds like your mistake in assuming. I meant we wouldn’t have to deal with colossal breaths once we pass the steam-lungs. Jodee’s at the Ocular Chamber, near the front. Count on it.”
“Didn’t we walk from the front? We traveled through the throat to reach the lungs.”
“Do you want to lead?” Ordus spun on Mr. Grey. The diegeonary had drawn his gun, and held it akimbo with the trumpet. He swung both for emphasis. “Look, it’s not exact biology. Follow my lead, help me pose as a tourist if we hit trouble, and we’ll reach Jodee pronto.”
Ordus waited for an answer. Mr. Grey reached for his ticker-pocket, but remembered he’d given it to the Diegeonary. Instead he shifted the violin coffin from one hand to the other.
Mr. Grey’s eyes had tracked Ordus’ gesticulation of the gun. Now he asked, “So, what’s the plan when we reach Jodee?”
Ordus dropped his shoulders. He said, “Question after question after question. There’s no trust with you, is there? What do you mean ‘plan’? We’re stopping her. Before she brings this colossal cowsowhorse and her tourist hordes into Wargermopolis.”
“Stop her, how? I did bring blank visas, just in case.”
“By force,” Ordus fist-pumped his gun hand.
“We could try reasoning with…”
Just then, their whispered chitchat met a hitch. An unexpected jet of air whooshed from a close valve. It scattered a steam cloud draped between two of the room’s squat pillars. The vapor wall disappeared, and Mr. Grey and Ordus realized they weren’t alone.
There stood Candlehead; broad shoulders thrown back, heroically; tapered top towering; bronze armor glistened in the damp. His bagpipes rested in an elbow, squeezeready. Candlehead’s wick flashed to sudden, blazing existence.
Ordus groaned. “I should’ve known. Candlehead… Man, how are we supposed to take him on?”
Ordus lifted the trumpet and the gun from the floor. Candlehead moved to squeeze, but Mr. Grey said, “Now now now, let’s discuss. Mr. Candlehead, I think Jodee needs to face her situation’s reality. They’re not entirely legal, her activities.”
“Y…Yeah,” added Ordus. Then, with a forced scoff, “Don’t you know? The Defense Force is already assembled. The whole force. All the king’s men. You partisans? Not a plankton’s chance. Might as well give up now. Besides,” he added with slowly-improving feigned confidence, “Mr. Grey’s a master enchanter, same as you. You can’t… you can’t HOLD A CANDLE to the both of us together! Mr. Grey’s with me. He’s picked a side, and that side’s the law. ”
“That last part is true,” said Mr. Grey.
Candlehead reached into his treasure sack with a free hand. He tossed a fragment of Famous Last Words to the marmoreal stage; the price of an enchantment.
Ordus shivered despite the steamy room. His trumpet drooped toward the marble. He raised the gun; aimed its dark tunnel at Candlehead’s runny wax.
Mr. Grey unbuckled his coffin with desperate speed. He said, “Well Ordus, we practice our scales for a reason, don’t we? A little music should help us all relax.”
Ordus looked at Mr. Grey with fear and disbelief written in his eyes. Sweat fountained from his chestnut hair. His trigger finger shook. He said, “Are you crazy?! We can’t enchant against Candlehead. He’s too strong. A demifish. Maybe once; when he was only a mortal man named Pollo. Now he’s cursed and blessed by the Blob Fish. He won’t…”
“Sorry,” Mr. Grey interrupted. “Did you say Pollo?”
“That was his name.”
Mr. Grey turned to Candlehead. He’d watched - or perhaps, ‘observed’ - them without interrupting. Mr. Grey said, “Mr. Candlehead, I’ve heard your real name - Pollo - in another context.”
Candlehead waited.
“My boss is Jack York. He said he knew you in the war.”
Still no reaction.
“I must tell you, he’s always been on the king’s side. He supports the Odormoats. I don’t think your old war friend would favor this choice. Aligning yourself with Jodee.”
Ordus’ gun dipped. He glanced between Mr. Grey and Candlehead. Mr. Grey waited, crouching at his open coffin, watching for a sign from the waxy demifish.
Candlehead moved; only to throw his shoulders back more heroically, and position the bronze bagpipes comfortably in his shoulder crook.
Ordus sighed and sagged. Mr. Grey finished unbuckling his violin. He tightened his bow and checked his tuning. Candlehead let him. Ordus goggled at Mr. Grey. Mr. Grey noticed, shrugged, and said, “We don’t have a choice. We have to play.”
“You madman…” whispered Ordus. Then he laughed. “I guess you’re right,” He clicked the safety on his gun and holstered it. With one hand he brought up the seashell trumpet. With the other, he reached into his own treasure purse. He tossed two sets of old spectacles on the ground.
“If we’re gonna enchant, might as well make it grand,” said the diegeonary.
This has been In Different Color, a fairy tale.
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