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Mr. Grey had never seen such oddly dressed toll collectors. Shabby and loose wineleather covered their grimy, hairy bodies. They wore their robes in the same style as the stoat’s, excessively folded and cropped halfway down the shin. The one Mr. Grey took for their leader - who came to the front of the group when Mr. Grey approached - was the grimiest, shortest, and hairiest of the crew. A wavy mane and wire brush beard covered almost his entire squat body. His shoulders, torso, and most of his legs hid themselves behind the hirsute mass. Only the shiny leather cuffs at his wrists showed he wore any robe at all beneath the beard.
Nor was this covering bush sculpted in any single way. An eclectic plethora of facial stylings featured throughout the canvas of hair. Plaits, mustaches, loops, dreadlocks, curls, waves, buns, fishtails; he wore all these and more in variety and abundance through the whole of his beard and hair. Into the lower left corner of this panorama, the tollman had woven a broach showing four gumdrops on a field of snow.
On noticing Mr. Grey, this leader and his fellow toll collectors had shoved themselves from reclined positions. They’d broken off idle conversation. Now they formed a semicircle around him, beneath fractured shadows cast by the huge arch.
This arch - this ‘gate’, Mr. Grey assumed - took shape from two enormous poetrees. They leaned and wove gradually together, with their long knotty branches intertwining at the top. The two long middle trunks of each flared out as two high pinnacles, like a pair of bulls horns. A cooing noise came from the highest boughs. Mr. Grey saw a roost of birds perching there, with long legs and needle beaks.
Mr. Grey returned his eyes to the semicircle. None had yet spoken. They waited for him. They seemed anxious. All of them clutched tightly at peculiar scepters-of-office; short, blunt sticks, like wooden versions of the metal beaters carried by the king’s bouncers.
The bearded leader wore his scepter slung over his back. It was a different style, Mr. Grey saw, signifying that collector’s high station. It had a long handle and a barrel-like, blunt head that stuck out by the leader’s waist.
Mr. Grey gathered all this in a few tocks, measured by his trusty ticker’s soft clicking against his chest. Now, uncomfortable with the stretching silence, Mr. Grey forgot what he’d meant to say. He checked that same ticker once more, confirmed the sun’s correct position, and looked back at the crew.
Mr. Grey broke the silence by saying, “Pardon me, good sirs. I don’t want to interrupt your game.”
The crew behind the leader scratched their heads in various degrees of confusion. The leader himself must have been accustomed to tourist accents. He laughed, and said, “All the time in the sky, pal.”
Mr. Grey’s shoulders sagged in relief… Well, more like they slumped in relief… Well his shoulders remained square actually, but he was definitely relieved. “Goodness, that is pleasant of you,” he began. “My name is Mr. Grey, and I’ve gotten a bit off track. I’m trying to reach town, and The Mender of Signs gave me directions (after I paid his fee, of course) that I’d say were a little vague. What I’m reallytruly looking for is my friend. Her name’s Honeydew, but you’d recognize her more from her robe. It’s got this marvelous pattern of sunflower eyes. Oh, and if you could tell me where the giant in the field tossed my luggage…”
Mr. Grey checked himself. Most of the group only smirked at him, without understanding; as a tired, old hound might look upon a squirrel chattering in a nearby tree. Only the leader seemed to comprehend. He nodded along as Mr. Grey spoke.
Mr. Grey asked, “Does all this sound regular?”
“It certainly does. You seem like you need guiding. We can help you there.”
“That is good to hear, sir. Sorry, I forgot to ask your name?”
The leader laughed. “Polite Mr. Grey! Heavy-Shining-Gourd is mine,” He thrust his hand for a shake. “You can call me Gourd.”
Mr. Grey thanked Gourd with usual formality. He’d heard odder names. He did think it could do with a ‘mister’ in front.
“Now then, Mr. Grey,” Gourd resumed. “We must have a toll from you, before directions.”
“Of course, of course. How much for passage?”
“How much have you got?”
Mr. Grey told him.
“That is the price of passage.”
Beneath the gate’s silhouette, on the shaded faces of the toll collectors, Mr. Grey saw ivory smiles. They offered encouragement. Nevertheless, the gloaming sun did not cast an encouraged shadow from Mr. Grey. Mr. Grey and his shadow reeled stiffly. He looked down the bridge of his nose at Gourd. “That… You’ll pardon me, that seems an extraordinary circumstance.”
“And nevertheless, that is the price of passage.”
“Don’t you think that’s rather expensive, though? For passage through a gate.”
“Also for guidance.”
Mr. Grey found himself in a dilemma. He would never outright refuse a lawful toll, and yet, wished not to give up his trip’s entire allotted treasure. He said, “Are there lots of… special local customs like that in Wine Medo?”
“The toll is the law. That’s how it’s always been, pal.”
“Do you have a document? Declarations of this and other laws? I’d like to familiarize myself.”
“There’s no document. I keep the law in my mind.”
With those words, Mr. Grey saw Gourd’s hand. Neither the man’s hair-hidden smile or his spread arms - grimy hands just poking from the hairy pelt - maintained the illusion.
“There’s always a document,” said Mr. Grey.
Gourd must have smelled the change in Mr. Grey’s demeanor; nothing in Mr. Grey’s appearance changed. The bandit swung his arms behind, drew his ‘scepter of office’ over a shoulder, and stepped closer to Mr. Grey. The other bandits moved out from the gate’s shadow. Their grins changed from encouraging to malicious.
“Then we will take it from you,” said Gourd matter-of-factly.
Mr. Grey turned and ran. In a manner, ran… I must tell you, it’s nearly impossible to paint Mr. Grey in a full sprint. His run was more of a dignified fast-walk, like a businessman late for a meeting. The bandits, however, definitely did run. They quickly caught up to and grabbed Mr. Grey. Their bodies attacked his unprotected nose with fumes of ‘sweat’ and ‘hog farm’.
Two of the ragged men held Mr. Grey’s arms while Gourd rifled the wine stained robe’s folds and pockets. Mr. Grey had never before been accosted or stolen from. Not so brazenly. The experience struck him dumb. He let them carry on.
His treasure purse came out first. Gourd only glanced at the bag, without checking its contents, before tossing it to a crony. He must have believed Mr. Grey’s account of the treasure within. Next came the pocket ticker. Gourd rubbed his greasy thumbs over the polished metal. He squinted at the tocking, ebony hands.
Mr. Grey woke from his stupor. “Please be careful with the ticker,” he said. “It’s of special value, I’ve carried it for ages. I’d appreciate it if you left me that possession.”
Gourd seemed to notice Mr. Grey again; as though he’d been poking through an inanimate wardrobe all along. “Where’s the real goods at?” he asked. He smacked his lips loudly and unseen behind the beard.
“I don’t know to what you’re referring.” Mr. Grey couldn’t think of anything else he had that the brigand might want. If he had thought of something, he would have offered it readily. Gourd was tossing his ticker carelessly between hands.
“Oh, but yes you do. Where’s the marble depot stuff?”
Mr. Grey shrugged with his arms still held by the lackeys. “I honestly don’t know what you mean. The giant threw us before I received anything.” Gourd almost dropped the ticker. “Oh please, be careful with that.”
Gourd chucked Mr. Grey’s pocket ticker hard onto the dirt. Mr. Grey’s stoicism broke with a wince. Gourd did not stop there. Ignoring the plea of Mr. Grey, he lifted his long handled scepter, swung it in a broad overhead arc, and brought its head down on the ticker. From beneath the barrel shaped wood came the hideous crunch of shattering glass. Mr. Grey sagged. Only the bandits holding his arms held him upright. When Gourd brought the scepter-hammer up, Mr. Grey’s pocket ticker lay embedded in the road dirt; cracked, bent, broken.
“Strip him of his robes,” said Gourd carelessly.
Mr. Grey at last found the will to struggle. But Mr. Grey was no fighter. His expression never quite reached anger. His struggle never quite reached fierce. His resistance took the form of somber tugging. It had little effect.
The bandits began to loosen his collar and sleeves.
Suddenly, from among the chicktails of a small pond at the roadside, they heard a tremendous, snarling roar; like that of a very old bear.
This has been In Different Color, a fairy tale.
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