Dragon Ferry - Entrée
Treats of Hot-Seas Pursuit
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The dragon ski bobbed and skimmed through the burning river. From the piled cargo at the passenger bed’s front, a suitcase detached. It hit the floor and exploded open. From inside flew an emerald studded carafe. Grand treasure. The valuable kitchenware soared past the partisans. It hurtled backward; destined either for the boat’s lava wake, or bubble tunnel walls through which they sped.
Mr. Grey, sitting at the back, reached a dry hand out and caught the carafe by its handle. He drew his arm back - his reflective robe crinkled as molten flecks thrown by the paddles spattered and hardened on it - and tucked the carafe under an elbow. He turned his face away from the singeing matter thrown up by the ski paddles and looked stonily at the passenger across from him.
It was Candlehead. The eyeless, mouthless partisan showed no sign of gratitude, no emotion of any kind. He held out an open hand for the carafe. Though Candlehead had no face through which to express, he seemed somehow less stoic at that moment; the wax ran down his candle like bullets of sweat in the lava river’s radiant warmth. Mr. Grey, nevertheless, gladly passed the carafe into the hero’s hand. He resumed a grey-knuckled grip on the ski railing.
Candlehead did not suffer alone. The heat swelled around them with every gooey, glowing speck of lava tossed by the paddles. Every set of lungs - except for Candlehead’s - heaved the burning air in and out, like laborers at a coal-stove. Every set of hands - except for Mr. Grey’s - sent rivers of sweat running down the handrails they clutched, which turned into hissing clouds of steam when they poured off the boat’s stern. Every face - except for the stoat skiman’s - looked longingly at the cool sea, gliding just out of reach behind the bubble-tunnel membrane.
Mr. Grey looked to their squat, stoic captain. The tiny hood fluttered wildly behind him, and the fur pressed flat on his face, as he skippered the dragon ski over the blazing river. With practiced wrist flicks, he sent the craft lurching forward whenever they came to a high crest of lava. The passengers bounced in their seats as the ship bobbed. The dragon engine powering the craft let out a satisfied purr at each subtle twist of the hand; like a hunting cat gnawing over a carcass.
As though sensing Mr. Grey’s eyes on his back, the stoat turned. He wore a pithless, world-weary expression. He paused looking back, still keeping the ski on a bobbing straight line. After a moment, he lifted a finger and pointed.
Mr. Grey, the only one looking up at that time, took one hand from the safety rail and prodded his crinkly-shielded chest, as if to say, “You mean me?” The skiman shook his head and pursed his lips, and jabbed harder with his finger; pointing, Mr. Grey realized, behind the dragon ski. Mr. Grey looked wake-ward. He raised his voice over the dragon roar, and said, “I think there’s a problem.”
The other passengers’ eyes followed Mr. Grey’s.
Behind them, another ship skimmed the flow. Through their wake, three decks of mechanical oars shoved an iron prow. The galley’s metal hull glowed as vibrant as the lava through which it slipped; so that the ship, with synchronized-stroking oars, seemed a cross between a dragonfly and centipede; an evil, elemental, primordial centipede, chasing the partisans over the molten stone.
A fishhook-beaked, metal albatross served as the galley’s figurehead. Behind it, one hand atop the bird’s flanged feather, posed diegeonary Ordus.
The distance between them shrank. The ski passengers listened, above their engine’s roar, to the pursuing galley’s prehistoric snarl. Ordus saw they’d noticed his ship. He threw his chest up, threw his chin back, and pegged them with his seashell trumpet. Above the syncopated engine’s rumbling they heard the diegeonary’s screams.
“Thought you could escape, did you? Thought you’d steal tactical information for Jodee, recruit some tourists for her Horde, then flee for Antiquity to spread dissent? On a river made by the very Sun Fish I serve? Well, news flash people; THAT AIN’T HAPPENING! ”
Candlehead stood; one hand on the rail, the other holding the carafe. The wax flew in streams from his cylinder. His wick danced in the hot air like a lonely hair strand. He faced the closing galley.
Meanwhile, the partisans bicker-shouted over the engine’s roar.
“Can’t this ski go any faster?!”
“Maybe we can churn up some big waves by serpentining.”
“Idiot! Their boat’s bigger than ours. That would never work!”
One of the partisans looked at where Mr. Grey, Tom, and Honeydew sat in a row. She said, “You three are outlanders; can’t you make some oddball, foreign ploy?”
Honeydew clung on the safety rail. She didn’t hear the partisan. Mr. Grey brought a thumb and finger to his chin. His stoic, thoughtful expression looked out-of-place against the backdrop of rolling sea-wall, growling dragon engine, and spewing fire-earth. He spoke in an outside-voice. “Any shifts in the terrain? To break line-of-sight? Or some obstacle; something we can put between?”
Some of the members looked over the gunnels. They pulled instantly back from the boiling stone flecks flung up by the paddles.
One partisan with freshly-singed brows said, “There are three-faced seals known to swim these uncharted earths. Maybe we could enlist one.”
Another added, “Somewhere along the History there’s a ramp of pure adamantine. We could jump it… you know… That might help!”
After a moment of consideration by the partisans, Tom spoke. “Both dangerous plots. Why not try the two at once?” He relaxed easily in two bench seats, sweating but unconcerned.
Nuggets suddenly stood; the only one upright aside from Candlehead. “I’m not even scared!” he said, waving his visa near the bubble tunnel roof. “Let’s defy not-existing! Let’s drink…”
Candlehead took his left hand from the rail, placed it on Nuggets’s shoulder, and pushed him back to the bench. A rogue mote of slag soared where Nuggets's head had been. The waxen-headed man casually returned his left hand to the rail. He’d held the carafe tight in his right’s fingers throughout, and held his hero’s pose.
Another tourist at the front called back, “Candlehead’s right Nuggets. Those plans are just too dangerous. We can’t risk failing our quest.”
Ordus’s screaming grew louder. “Nothing escapes the rays of the Sun Fish! Give up now, while you still have the chance!”
Tom brought a thumb and finger to his chin in an unconscious imitation of Mr. Grey. “I could whack them when they board,” he said. He gave his mallet a light shake.
The partisans liked the idea. Honeydew - slipping and swaying, somehow struggling for balance despite being seated - shot it down. “Wonderful thinking,” she snapped sarcastically. “A mallet against bullets.”
Mr. Grey said, “I remember a visa applicant’s story similar to this. Well for them, it was more of a routine boat inspection. But the whole thing was a misunderstanding. It turned out the best thing for that applicant was to stop. Await the inspection…”
The ski swerved under a jerk of the stoat’s wrist. The dragon engine gurgled as they veered by a craggy wedge of unmelted stone. It slid past their port. The passengers’ eyes followed the boulder as it shrank behind. They looked back to the galley; too wide to slip around the boulder like their ski. The passengers held their breath.
The Defense Force galley smashed the boulder to fragments. It passed through unscathed. The triple decks of oars pumped up-and-down, up-and-down. Ordus sneered, and the galley surged closer.
The partisans’ shoulders sagged. Even Candlehead’s dropped. Mr. Grey thought this was the legendary demifish accepting defeat.
Candlehead did not resign. With the right hand he held the emerald carafe toward the bubble-tunnel roof. After taking the left from the rail, he pulled his bagpipes onto his chest. He squeezed.
An intricate, if not exactly melodious, wheeze surged from the bronze; a battle-hymn played to perfection. Candlehead had no mouth with which to blow, but on their own the pipes squealed. With a practiced hand, the master worked his instrument.
And, Mr. Grey had to admit, the enchant was grand. The ski’s passengers saw the tunnel-membrane warble. Then with a pop, the carafe disappeared.
The membrane burst.
Sea water exploded into the tunnel behind. It hissed onto the river of molten earth, throwing up fragments of stone and steam. The lava solidified instantly. Their own ski took a collateral scathing from the enchantment. The hardened stone clipped the tail end, and they swerved unsteadily on the lava waves. And only a tock after, the bubble resealed over the rupture.
But the effect worked. The pursuing galley hit the patch of hardened river. It slammed hard into the solidified stone, skidded a short way overtop, and was beached.
As the skiman stoat revved their bruised craft forward, Ordus’s screams faded. “Cowards!” he cried after them. “If you think you’ve seen the last of me…” His voice slipped out of hearing. The passengers heaved a communal sigh. Candlehead sat down, his bagpipes wheezed their last gasp.
And the dragon ski sailed on, through the searing tunnel.
This has been In Different Color, a fairy tale.
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