Museumtown and Country - Appetizer
Treats of Town Monsters and the Town Rozzers
You’re snacking on In Different Color, a fairy tale.
See The Menu for more treats.
Time sweltered…
Mr. Grey swiveled on his feet; a loud, static popping echoed overhead. His grey eyes shot along the tight, smooth stones of the old street. Shot under the pale arches. Shot past the marble-swirled walls of buildings. The grey eyes flicked from face to face, pedestrian to pedestrian. He searched for Tom. For Honeydew. For Nuggets or Candlehead. For familiar faces in sudden danger. Which direction was the static? He searched for a flashing muzzle of dark metal. He spotted the source a dozen paces down the street.
It was a lightning burner; a harmless, flaring sparkmaker. It sent a bolt of electricity skyward. A young girl and boy danced around the sparking toy. The vendor who’d sold it chuckled at their merrymaking. The traffic plying the smooth, paved street showed not the least disturbance. Mr. Grey did not release his stiff posture, but his heart’s thunder slowly melted off.
As his pulse mellowed Mr. Grey spotted a familiar shape. Tom stood beside the vendor, twisting his wrists around his own lightning-burner. Mr. Grey trod a swift course to his friend. As a lost sailor finds new vigor at the long-missed sight of land; he kicks his feet with fury, pushes a hand in the salty waves with newfound gusto, drives his driftwood existence-preserve through the foam; just so did Mr. Grey speed toward Tom. He paused for a passing herd of locals with the upper bodies of men and the lower bodies of cowsowhorses. He gave way to a Wereterrier with an oak-hoop robe. But, at last, he arrived in Tom’s safe company.
On crossing the busy street he found not just Tom, but Honeydew. The sunflower-eyes patterning her dress hid behind Tom’s robe of cloud-zeppelins. Also nearby - under the many-headed shadow of a stone-bust shop - were the partisans.
Mr. Grey cleared his throat with a dry cough. He spoke over the shrill din of one passing celebrant’s parchment party-whistle. “I think I got lost. In all this hurley burly. Is this typical? For Museumtown?”
Tom kept trying to ignite his lightning burner. Mr. Grey reflected that Tom’s hearing failed him often recently. He turned to Honeydew instead.
She stretched her arms and twisted her image in a warped mirror. The new single-strap, local-style cut she was testing bore the same pattern of sunflower-eyes as her usual robe. The enormous gopher-haired tailor who’d sold it to her (a distant relative of Ms. Maysey, thought Mr. Grey) crossed his arms. The gopher eyes of his hair narrowed. He said the price was two tie clasps. Honeydew counter-offered a bag of cat bones (without the skull, of course). They haggled.
Mr. Grey walked away. His shoes tapped evenly on the smooth road stones. The happy clamor of celebrating citizens muffled his steps. He passed swiftly under thin shadow bands thrown by high marble arches. The counter of one shop did get his attention. Two displays caught his grey orbs; one of antique clams, and one of antique violins. But he passed this as well, for he liked his own instrument, and stepped over to the partisans.
Jodee Coats’ followers passed pamphlets busily to both Museumtown’s monstrous residents, and its visiting tourists. A frier of any-and-all things was set up close by with her kitchen cart. She battered, breaded, and sizzled foods - and other sundries - brought her by hungry customers. The greasy musk of her cart suffused not just the walls, roads, and passing tourists, but the air itself. It formed a cloud around the partisans. The revolutionary whispers they passed out with each pamphlet were laden with butter breath. When one of Jodee’s lot whispered to a passerby with beehive skin and honey robes; when that partisan said that Jodee would liberate - not just Museumtown - but all of Antiquity, and the bubble of Pluck after, and would let all tourists travel freely in Glory Days; when the partisan spoke thus, the greasy-words joined with the humid air. The lardy whisper worked against the beehive-skinned woman’s senses. Rather than rouse her with rebellious verve, the words lulled her to sleep. She yawned, and stumbled off sluggishly.
Mr. Grey walked to the edge of Jodee’s group. He found Nuggets, tapped a grey finger on the rose-flower-suspender of the young man’s robe, and said, “Shouldn’t we move on?”
Nuggets side-eyed him while handing a pamphlet to a passing boxer. “No way Mr. Grey,” he said with a sharp wag of his downy cheeks. “The crowd flocks to Candlehead.”
Mr. Grey thought the crowd flocked more to the handfuls of shiny pebbles the partisans gave with each pamphlet, than to Candlehead's heroic figure. Rather than voice that notion, he said, “I thought we needed a guide. For finding The Lost City. Isn’t that our goal?”
“Come on Mr. Grey! Look at all these strange faces!”
“I’m aware of them.”
“For finding recruits, it's a golden chance!”
“It’s conspicuous.”
Nuggets waved to attract passersby while he handed a half-dozen pebbles to a pedestrian in a crow-feather robe. “Don’t think of soldiers. It’s a festival. Defense Forces are asleep. Hehehehehe.”
From the other side of the group, another partisan stage-whispered. “Psst, voices down, look casual. Defense Force, coming this way!”
Mr. Grey angled his ankles, balanced on his toes, and craned his neck. He looked over the partisans’ heads, past Candlehead’s wick. At the street’s far end, Defense Force soldiers marched through the throng of diversely-dressed tourists and chimeric locals. They pushed gently but firmly through a gaggle of tourists in Wine Medo style, Sourbeak-feather robes. They passed through a sentient stone door with a face, not by answering its riddle, but with a warrant. The soldiers did not trample the toddler hydra separated from its mother and caught in their path. One picked it up and set it aside. They kept their guns safely on their shoulders, but they marched, resolvedly, down the street.
The Defense Force soldiers cast cursory glances at everyone they passed. Mr. Grey turned to put some distance between himself and the partisans. After all, he thought, he wasn’t genuinely part of their group. But the partisans bunched up and swallowed Mr. Grey into their middle. They stopped passing out pamphlets, whispers, and shiny pebbles. This only drew new attention; those tourists and locals who’d yet to receive their free treasure - or who returned for a second helping - suddenly flocked to the group.
Mr. Grey used his ankle-toe-neck maneuver again. He searched for escape routes. Across the street stood Honeydew and Tom. Honeydew wore her new Glory Days robe. Tom twisted his lightning burner. They looked helplessly back at Mr. Grey. Mr. Grey glanced at the approaching Defense Force. The armed men had noticed the commotion around Jodee’s partisans. They marched on a direct line at the group. Mr. Grey reversed his usual tread. He backstepped away from the approaching soldiers and out of the cluster. Surprisingly, the partisans parted for him. Mr. Grey slipped easily through the group; partisans slid by like water.
Then his back struck something solid. He turned. Mr. Grey’s eyes met a metal chest plate embossed with a prawn-fish icon. He looked up into a leader-of-men’s steely gaze; into the eyes of a Defense Force captain. He stood at the head of a second patrol from the opposite end of the street.
The celebration ended in every mouth. The arches above seemed to thicken, throwing broader shadows over the boulevard. The captain stared at Mr. Grey. He brought up a warrant; legal-looking to Mr. Grey’s practiced eyes. He said, “You there! Are you the speaker for this party? This group doling out handfuls of shiny pebbles and pamphlets?” The captain held up one of the pamphlets, still-folded, next to the warrant in his other hand.
Mr. Grey’s heart jumped triple-time with his pocket ticker’s tock. His words were, nonetheless, in regular monotone. “I wouldn’t say ‘speaker’, per se. And I haven’t personally doled out any handfuls.”
“So you’re not just some regular handler… I’m guessing you must be the leader then? The one who tugs the strings.”
Mr. Grey glanced behind. By now, the other patrol of soldiers had reached the group. Jodee’s partisans were enclosed by men with guns. Candlehead stood conspicuous in the center. Mr. Grey thought that, perhaps, the candle attracted less notice among the Museumtown’s local monsters.
The Defense Force captain brought Mr. Grey’s eyes back with a shake of the pamphlet and warrant. “So what are you then, a master enchanter and his students? Don’t try to hide that violin at your side. Yeah, trying to lure people in maybe. The first enchantment’s free, you’ll even toss the customer a pebble. Is that how you snare people? Well it’s none of my business. My business is tracking down breakers of the king’s laws, and those who foment rebellion.”
Mr. Grey cleared his dry throat. He said, “Well officer, I can say with certainty that I’m not trying to work against the king. It's actually a fact; I work in a government office myself. At the change of address department in the Starharbor Regional Justice Center. I have a healthy respect for both the Odormoats, and the safety they maintain, and I wouldn’t dream of seeing them overthrown. I don’t get involved in that sort of conflict. It would be wrong; such matters aren’t my business. And as far as being a master enchanter… That’s flattering of you to say, but my talents are modest. I have performed one grand enchantment, back during my days - or perhaps it's more understandable to say ‘my time’ - in Wine Medo. That was under special circumstances, however, and I’m sure I couldn’t repeat the effort. That’s neither here nor there. As far as your task of tracking down rebels and-”
“Yeesh, I get it!” the guard interrupted. “You could have just told me you’re a Museumtown resident. You could have said you have a right to sell your services, and no knowledge of the tourist horde. We’ll leave you to it.”
The guard handed the unopened pamphlet to Mr. Grey, about-faced, whirled a finger in the air, and led his patrol back through the crowded street. The patrol on the other side did the same. As they left, Mr. Grey heard one soldier joke, “Never heard of a gorgon’s voice before.”
When the soldiers were gone and the celebrations resumed, Nuggets walked to Mr. Grey and patted him on the shoulder. “Good job Mr. Grey,” he said. “You’ve mastered the local tongue.” Nuggets took Mr. Grey by the wrist and gave him a handful of shiny pebbles.
Mr. Grey said, “Nuggets, I should say; your cause isn’t mine. I’m sorry but I-”
“No sweat Mr. Grey. I like your style anyway. Yes sir yes sir yes.”
“Thank you I suppose.”
The other partisans readied their luggage. Nuggets said, “The plan now is to split up. Find a townish guide. We’ll meet up later, at the town’s Panacheward edge. See you in an age.”
Nuggets, Candlehead, and the rest of Jodee’s partisans took off through the street. They fractured into smaller units as they passed each pale-stoned intersection of thoroughfare and alley. They dissolved entirely; each duo or trio prowling for a guide. The partisans left Mr. Grey alone, beneath the shadow of an arch; in the buttery, hot, humid, celebrating throng.
A tock later Tom and Honeydew joined him.
“While they’re friendly folk, I’m glad they’ve moved on,” Mr. Grey said. “They do stretch King’s Law. And they’re a bit too brazen.”
Honeydew stretched her arms in her new robe. “Just a bit,” she said.
Tom tugged his lightning burner; and the lid finally cracked open. Buttery air rushed into the device. The igniter started. A spark flared and sprinted down the wick.
Honeydew’s fingers shot out and snuffed it. Tom glared at her, but she said. “Little less show, Tom.”
“Ah sorry, you’re right,” said Tom. He looked crestfallen.
“Let's look for a guide,” said Mr. Grey.
This has been In Different Color, a fairy tale.
Ready for the Entrée?
Still hungry? See The Menu.