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Treats of Haunted Ladles
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A swinging chair groaned as Mr. Grey leaned into it. He watched the ghosts swinging soundlessly across from him on the treehouse porch. Mr. Grey said, “Kind of you to guide us from that nest, Mr. McDourr, Mrs. McDourr. We’ve been lost since we arrived.”
Wilson, the Mr. of the McDourrs, held his insubstantial spine erect, smoothed out a wrinkle in the window-shutter pattern of his see-through robe, and twisted a curl in his mustache. In a tone commendable to Mr. Grey’s ear, he said, “Mr. Grey, it may be that trolls crush your bones and tan your skin, it is possible that goblins pilfer your purse, and you will find it extraordinarily likely to encounter conniving elves with designs upon your heart or mind. Let it not be said, however, that Wilson McDourr and Anna McDourr have ever treated a lost stranger discourteously. The McDourrs, sir, are a courteous clan.”
“Will be a courteous clan, Sweets,” added Anna McDourr, with a posh dusting of her rocking-chair-pattern robe. “Are a courteous pair, I hope. But where clans go, only some tale may tell if we will be.”
“Will be then, of course, Love. Now Mr. Grey; to what cause are we indebted for the joy of your disorientation?”
Mr. Grey made a long, mechanical hinging motion of the jaw; a yawn. He said, “That’s… hmmm. Where to begin?” He looked sideways at Honeydew. She sat beside him, motionless in her swinging chair. She seemed unwilling to engage with the conversation, or the McDourrs. She fixed her eyes on the barren tea-table between their circle of seats, or on the crooked sapling-posts supporting the porch, or on the suitcase beside her, or on the backs of her hands; but never on the McDourrs. Having no support, Mr. Grey stopped to think. He ruminated on the view beyond the porch’s rail of fleshy wood.
Mr. Grey, Honeydew, and the weightless ghosts sat in their wicker chairs; in a hollow recess of a towering, crooked archtree; far, far above the rest of the forest’s canopy. They’d ascended a long, curving, steep stairway of pillowy steps attached with big iron nails to the trunk. Honeydew had looked for apples among the lower branches as they climbed, but all the near ones had been picked bare. As they stepped higher, The Old Wind’s breezes blew harder, until they reached the canopy and passed from her typical haunt. Now, far away below, an endless sea of leaves shivered - like coins atop a running dragon engine - under a cold crescent moon. The big leaves of the big tree moved in The Wind with a bassy, wave-ish sound, and big owls hooed like whales.
Mr. Grey had known worse places for pondering. The McDourrs let Mr. Grey think for many moments, beside the gently crashing leaves of the moonlit forest sea. Both Anna and Wilson did, however, put in an occasional impatient shuffle. They threw meaningful glances at their own pile of spectral packing bags, which sat by a screen door leading into the trunk.
After many tocks, Mr. Grey said, “The main reason we’re in Dreamland is; we’re searching for someone. Her name is Jodee Coats.”
“Miss Coats?” Mrs. McDourr started, and sent her chair swooping back.
“You know her?”
“Know her! Husband, did we not speak with such another misplaced soul? But a short eon past?”
“We certainly did,” said Mr. McDourr, with a wag of his head. “And if this lost soul and your lost soul both walk this moat in a robe like a dragon engine, with a potted alwayslush tucked under her arm, then by-my-bald-head, they’re the same!” He touched the top of his tonsured head softly, as if placing himself under oath.
“That’s wonderful news,” said Mr. Grey with inward excitement. He turned a blank face to Honeydew. “If they saw her not long ago, and she was lost, we can’t be far behind.”
Honeydew still sat hunched up. She did look at Mr. Grey, and said, “True about the time. But her being lost doesn’t make your job easier.”
Before Mr. Grey could say anything, Wilson spoke. “It is always thus, at ‘once upon a time…’. Everyone is astray at the beginning. They find themselves eventually.”
Mr. Grey suppressed another yawn and said, “That is a weight gone. We’ll catch her soon, I think.”
Mrs. McDourr hissed a word of shame. Mr. McDourr jumped to his feet and pointed a spectral finger at Mr. Grey. He said, “You daren’t go a-hunting for young girls, daren’t you!?”
“Ms. Coats, sir… Her influence… She’s not from here, you understand?”
“She seemed a fine, ‘riding hood’ sort to me,” said Anna McDourr. She pursed her lips, a look made macabre by the grinning skull visible behind her translucent skin.
“Dear, dear,” said Wilson in a soothing tone. “Let us not involve ourselves in affairs of which we may not recognize all the circumstances. Though I do say, sir,” he added, turning to Mr. Grey, “that yours is a remarkably unhappy-sounding manner of adventure.”
“And you’ve caught us at a poor juncture,” added his wife. “Right at the tail of a move. So much left to pack. We’re ill-arranged for hosting at this moment. And the night grows long.”
The ghosts stood. Another yawn from Mr. Grey didn’t sit them back down, so he stood also. He prepared for a courteous, though unhappy, exit down the tree stairs. Honeydew stood eagerly.
Just then, The Old Wind said, “Oh! Such a bothersome talk, so high in my air,” Her voice bellowed from far away over the silver sea of leaves, but with enough force still to reach their high perch. The whole huge tree rocked and groaned and writhed, and swung their seats for them if they would not. The Wind forced Mr. Grey and Honeydew, standing as they were, to brace on the plushy wooden rail.
Mr. and Mrs. McDourr shared an awkward eye. Anna said, “The Old Wind never complains so. Not around our tree.” She plucked at the rocking-chair collar of her robe.
“It’s a lovely house,” said Mr. Grey.
“This is a library, sir,” said Wilson, with a stately hand pressed partway through his incorporeal chest.
“Wilson,” said Anna with a note of reproach, “it does seem a shame to turn away strays. When the Wind’s in a temper. Without a fare-thee-well to set them a-going.”
Mr. Grey added, “Any leftovers, or even party snacks, we’d be grateful for.” Honeydew cast a longing eye down the crooked stair, but her stomach lent its voice to aid Mr. Grey.
Wilson huffed. “I shan’t say its filling, sir and madam,” he began, in what sounded like half-apology, half-pride, all-ghostly-wail.
“We’ll take anything you’ll give.”
“Well, a fellow must cut his coat according to his cloth. We have often gifted wandering spirits with a mean bowl of punch.”
“Do let’s stir up a batch, dear,” said Anna. “Give this pair a warm sip to travel by.”
“I am retrieving the pot this very tock, my love.”
Mr. Grey’s stomach expressed doubts on the nutritional value of the McDourr’s punch, particularly when Mr. Grey’s eyes saw the translucent pot Wilson grabbed. Mr. Grey’s feet, however, gladly took the excuse to stay longer. He returned to his swing at double the usual sitting speed; practically a collapse. Honeydew eased back into hers. She kept her muscles tense, her arms wearing their striations. Her knuckles - wrapped around the hazel-like stick of soft wood, blanched when Wilson doled their punch into individual cups. He used an incongruously corporeal spoon, which seemed to float unaided over the translucent pot on the coffee table.
The ghosts drank quietly from their cups. Honeydew only stared suspiciously at hers. Mr. Grey wanted to grab his fiddle and flavor the punch for her, but thought their host might take it rudely. He sipped from his cup; not enough for a real taste.
Mr. Grey felt a guest’s obligation to carry the dialogue. He said, “It’s a lovely library-tree. I’m surprised you’re giving up the view. Is it an HOA thing? The tree sticking out from nearby tree-homes?”
Mrs. McDourr’s eyes drooped. She shook her head and set her drink down. “I don’t mind telling you, Mr. Grey, Ms. Honeydew, that we love this old library.”
Wilson said, “This is - as you no doubt recognized upon ascending the long stair and beholding the broad copse - a dwelling of singular and spectacular kind.” He spread his spectral arms wide for emphasis, and spoke on with a solemn, whispery voice. “And the collection of knowledge within these ringed walls is, one may hazard, beyond that of many an enchantress’ tower or king’s castle.”
“But high, my dear,” said Anna with a short ghost-wail. “And a dangerous precipice. Wouldn’t you agree Mr. Grey, Ms. Honeydew?”
Mr. Grey nodded. Wilson said, “I do not dispute. I only set forth the case in its plainest language, to paint the most-comprehensible picture.”
“I know, Love. It only makes me moan that the wants of family and home should be crossed.” She turned with an explaining air to Mr. Grey. “You see, Mr. Grey, Ms. Honeydew, Mr. McDourr and I hope to begin a family.”
“Oh,” said Mr. Grey. He examined both the puff-chested specter of Wilson McDourr, and the complacent Anna rocking weightlessly in her chair. Honeydew kept her mouth tight, and her eyes fixed on the ladle floating in the translucent punch bowl. After a tock, Mr. Grey added, “Congratulations.”
“Thank you, Mr. Grey,” said Wilson, whose see-through chest took on roosterish proportions.
“We’re not expecting yet,” said Anna, but with such determined and conspicuous joy that she might have stated the opposite. “But when we are, our towering library-tree - though it has a splendid view - seems unsafe. You understand?”
“No educational facilities in the immediate vicinity either,” added Wilson. “The McDourrs, Anna and Myself, wish for our daughters and sons the best opportunities of education and society.”
Mr. Grey approached his next questions slowly. “Pardon the question, I hope it’s not rude to ask, but can ghosts-”
“Poltergeists, sir,” said Wilson, with a firm, patronizing, slow blink of his eyes. The spirits emphasized their point by fluttering the pages of an open book sitting near the door, without moving an eyelash.
Mr. Grey looked between the book and the McDourrs. “It’s still a shame to leave a library. So it seems to us. Honeydew and I are always playing catch-up-as-we-go wherever we travel. A day - even a few moments - to read up on the local culture would be a boon.” He looked to Honeydew to back him up. She nodded, once. Her eyes closely tracked the ladle, and she unconsciously mirrored its stirring with her hazel stick.
The ghosts seemed to miss Mr. Grey’s unsubtle hint. “How is it you have established yourself as the primary concern of these adventures, sir?” asked Wilson.
“It’s just one vacation. All Odormoat passage is covered by our visa.”
“Your visa!” the McDourrs said as one. The book fluttered with a projector sound at the ghosts’ astonishment. The Old Wind roared distantly at their commotion. The rocking chairs on Anna’s spectral robe seemed to creak with the noise of her real rocking in the swing seat. Honeydew tensed.
“You will, I hope, excuse our astonishment, my good sir,” said Mr. McDourr when the couple had got past their spectral show. “Not one among the travelers who we’ve lodged for a stretch of night has ever held, in their possession, a genuine visa.”
“Reallytruly?” asked Mr. Grey.
“One by one, or two by two, not any’s had their documents,” said Anna.
“That’s surprising. I’ve worked before on changes-of-address for Dreamland. But then, we’re far from Starharbor.”
“And you’ve retained hold on yours all this long way?” asked Mr. McDourr. He smiled and shook his head, as if to add, ‘not bad old sport’.
“We’ve kept it, or kept its twin,” said Mr. Grey. He glanced at Honeydew, then the ghosts. “It’s a cloth replacement from Wine Medo. Our original was lost.”
“Stolen,” Honeydew chimed in. She immediately pressed her mouth shut.
“True. Our original parchments were stolen. This one’s the same as far as legitimacy.”
“Parchment is preferable,” said Mr. McDourr. “A greater pleasure to flip. And it covers all travel, your visa? Both for you, Mr. Grey, and you, Ms. Honeydew?”
“Let’s not press them on identifying particulars, husband,” said Mrs. McDourr. “Now we know they’re folk of many lands, I’ve a single wish to hear their stories.”
“A magical proposal. Do give us your tall tales Mr. Grey, Ms. Honeydew. Soliloquize upon Wine Medo, and other Odormoats of note.”
The ghosts leaned creakily forward in their swinging seats. Mr. Grey rubbed an eye and looked out across the ocean of silvered woods. He said, “There hasn’t been much to tell I’m afraid. We’ve been to Wine Medo, and Glory Days, and seen some sights at both.”
“Oh, but do tell us how it compares,” pleaded Mrs. McDourr. “What’s your impression of Dreamland?”
“It’s- To be, perhaps, too strong; there’s a surprising lack of the king’s presence.”
“A truthful statement,” sighed Wilson.
“We were hoping to speak with a bouncer of the law.”
“Very few to be got, it grieves me to say. The Queen’s Law is the established kind in Dreamland. Not the king’s.”
“Queen’s law?” asked Mr. Grey. The archtree groaned in the Wind, and he swung back in his seat.
“And she’s an idler,” said Anna with a flick of the book pages.
“Now, my love,” said Wilson reprovingly. “Let us not make sweeping statements on the good and evil of Her Queenship.”
“The fact is, Mr. Grey,” said Anna in a gentler voice, “that the monarchy hasn’t turned smoothly over in dreamland. It’s a legal nightmare, and the result is; the country’s unsafe. Especially for a family.”
“Dear me,” said Mr. Grey in sympathetic monotone.
Wilson nodded. “You shall find King’s Law governs one setting, Queen’s Law another. Trolls demanding unsanctioned bridge tolls. Faeries conniving to steal your vigor. There is even, roaming through the forest, a fierce dragon.”
“Steam?”
“The other variety.”
“I see why you’d choose to move.”
“Not to suggest everything’s doom and gloom,” said Anna. “But we feel there’s more verdant pastures, for raising a family. Better frontiers.”
Mr. Grey touched his ticker through its pocket, drawing comfort. He glanced at Honeydew; she remained withdrawn. He said, “Do you think you could help by pointing us to the nearest migration office? King’s or Queen’s.”
Anna pulled on her twin braids of hair, and gave a banshee moan to match The Wind. “If only we knew!”
Wilson said, “There, there, my love. We shall discover our course, by and by. I’ve an omen that our fortunes are turning.”
Mr. Grey recognized it was a poor subject, and all fell silent. The tree creaked. The translucent pot of punch steamed. The moon’s shine struck right through the McDourrs, and glinted off the polished metal case of Mr. Grey’s ticker as he consulted it. He watched a few tocks go by on the ebony hands, then said, “Goodness, I didn’t realize it had gotten so late.”
“We have enjoyed each other’s company, my good sir and madam,” said Mr. McDourr. He chuckled and rubbed the arms of his swinging chair, as he felt a sudden spiritual vigor. Again, the poltergeist seemed to miss Mr. Grey’s point.
Honeydew watched Mr. Grey’s jaw loosen for another mechanical yawn. In an uncharacteristic, demure tone, she asked him, “Do you think it’s safe? Sleeping in this tree?”
“By all means do!” said Anna with sudden enthusiasm. Wilson looked to the portal in the soft wood wall; a light screen door, with an old enchanters’ hat styled into the crosswork lattice, and a horseshoe nailed above the threshold. It creaked torturously open.
This has been In Different Color, a fairy tale.
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