Museumtown and Country - Entrée
Treats of Museum Trespass
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They were being followed.
Honeydew pulled Mr. Grey and Tom into an exhibit on the museum’s second story. They ducked behind a dusty, bleached, taxidermied cowsowhorse bull, rearing on a plinth.
“Do we know who they are?” Honeydew said in a low hiss.
As if in answer, voices echoed. Echoed through the galleries and atriums. Echoed around pillars and podiums. Echoed under the ancient dust of stone benches, and echoed over relic-filled displays. Echoed, to where the three crouched.
“Do you know, my lovely familiar, what I find most appalling… palling… ling… ing…?” echoed one voice.
“What… what… at…?” echoed another.
“That we should find ourselves among such history - such Antiquity! - and yet, unable to pause and admire it… mire it… it...”
“Got a job… job… job…”
“And how lamentable! That our task should require these soldiers’ assistance. When all might be so reasonably concluded by contract… by contract… contract… tract...”
Mr. Grey dropped his head from its neck-stretched, ear-strained listening. Tom and Honeydew joined him in a huddle. “It’s Blackjaw and Slake,” said Mr. Grey.
“With soldiers as well,” added Honeydew. All three held their breath and noted the synchronized leather-boot-drum on the marble floor.
“Their voices make me queasy,” said Tom. He clutched at his stomach.
“You can’t be here,” said a new voice behind the three. They stood and spun as one.
Leaning on a broom made from a crooked, knobby tree-branch and dried chicktails, there stood an old janitor. He wore a single-strap robe. He wore it especially low on his front, so that the shark’s-head which took the place of his belly could breathe. Where a normal head went on a regular janitor, this janitor sported a tall fin.
The bored shark face on his belly looked up into theirs; Tom’s startled face, Honeydew’s suspicious one, and the expressionless mask of Mr. Grey. “You can’t be here,” repeated the shark through rows of jagged ivory. “Museum’s closed at festival.”
“We were just leaving,” said Mr. Grey. The janitor grunted, jiggling his shark-belly-face. He began sweeping the dust and echoes out from under a stone bench.
Honeydew said, “I saw a fire exit down the hall,” She went to the exhibit threshold, checked the painting and statue-lined corridor for pursuers, and stalked out. Tom and Mr. Grey followed.
They reached the fire exit, but found the door locked. “Tom, break it open,” said Honeydew. She threw a quick look behind.
“But we’re in a museum,” said Tom with a furrowed brow. “It seems uncivil. Besides, the lock’s strong.”
The three heard another chorus of echoes travel the dusty halls.
“Now this won’t do, my dearest Mr. Grey… Mr. Grey… Grey…” came Slake’s whine down the corridor. It slithered over the smooth tile.
“Very rude… ry rude… rude…” barked Blackjaw’s. His voice rebounded off the statues.
“This terrible difficulty you’ve tangled yourself in - with these eloquent locals - it’s the exact dilemma finder’s fix all the time… all the time… the time… time…!”
“Standard signing… signing… ning…”
“Beauteous Blackjaw, I think we’re able to offer our Grey friend more. More than just the chance to ease his buddy Bugwitch’s burden. Why, with scant more than a few penscrawls, he’d have the necessary funds - not just for any legal fees resulting in his distressing selection of allies - but to purchase anything he wants; here in splendid Glory Days… Glory days… days…”
“One big loan; one low interest… low interest… interest…”
With each trade in Blackjaw and Slake's exchange, the echoes resounded louder and closer. The synchronized boots echoed with them. The three felt surrounded by an army of marching soldiers. Mr. Grey said, “Let's forget this way. Surely there’s another door.”
They soft-ran down a side corridor with walls lined in glass cases. These cases showed disintegrating robes of plant fiber and Woe Worm silk. Blackjaw and Slake’s taunting offers, and the marching boots of soldiers, followed close behind. Honeydew clicked low. “This is stupid. What do they want anyway?”
Mr. Grey’s feet echoed themselves; severely as he strode along behind. He simply could not soften his step to less than an office-trot. “There’s a stoop dweller at home,” he answered. “He goes by Bugwitch. He signed a contract; a dragon’s hoard treasure loan. My name’s listed too, as the guarantor.”
Honeydew stopped and whirled. She pressed a palm to Mr. Grey’s shoulder. Tom ran a few paces past, then pounded, softly, to a halt. Honeydew said, “You did not sign a finder’s contract…”
Mr. Grey searched along the robe-lined, open hall. He inclined his neck to the pillared entry of an antechamber. The three slipped inside. They rounded the corner and threw themselves flush against the wall.
Above them stretched a wide oil painting in a heavy, filigreed-driftwood frame. The painting showed a woman - fair hair, smooth skin, soft eyes - sitting under the shaded boughs of a hedgecherry tree. Her many-folded robe suggested the portrait’s subject was of Wine Medo. The plaque beneath the painting confirmed this fact. It added that, in days of old, she had been a Wisdom, well-versed in varied fields. In her arms the fair woman held three golden hedgecherries: one of flawless smoothness, one of bumpy texture but sterling shine, and one that simply looked good to eat.
Honeydew crouched against the wall beneath the leftmost, smooth hedgecherry. She nudged Mr. Grey on the shoulder, wanting an answer. Mr. Grey - squatting uncomfortably under the bumpy, shiny hedgecherry’s spotlight glitter - held a finger to his lips. He motioned to the doorway. Tom reached to touch the hedgecherry he sat under, decided that was improper, and waited patiently.
Two tocks later, the three heard the marching bootsteps and the jeers of Blackjaw and Slake. No longer their echoes, but the genuine articles. Honeydew, Tom, and Mr. Grey waited with breaths held. Their hearts beat at odds. Tom’s worked hard but steadily pumping blood to every corner of his large body. Honeydew’s ran haphazardly and unpredictably, now from one ventricle, now from the other. Mr. Grey’s beat a perfect double-time with his ticker.
The footsteps and jeers drew closer. The three tensed against the wall. The voices came from just by the doorway.
“Now where might our misguided prospect have placed himself, bonny Blackjaw?”
“Beats me Slake.”
The voices stopped at the doorway… then moved past. They drifted away with the crew of soldiers. Their echoes still hounded the three.
Honeydew, Mr. Grey, and Tom let go their breaths. Tom said, “We’re not yet free of those two.”
Honeydew stabbed Mr. Grey’s shoulder with a finger, “Well?” she asked. “Did you sign?”
“Not exactly, no,” said Mr. Grey. “I think Bugwitch added it. I’m sure by mistake.”
Honeydew relaxed. “So it’s a forgery? They’ve got no legal standing.”
“It’s not so simple. Signatures are hard to prove; harder to disprove. They could make trouble.”
“Then we keep ahead of them.”
Mr. Grey hesitated. “Maybe they’ll negotiate? To the Defense Force, we’d explain ourselves. To finders Slake and Blackjaw, I could pay the debt.”
Tom glowered at him. Honeydew said, “You can’t be serious.”
“It is the most lawful way.”
“Is it lawful to pay a forged debt?”
Mr. Grey’s ticker tocked quietly in its pocket. “Well, maybe not then,” he said at length. He breathed heavily through his nose.
A voice made all three start.
“I told you; museum’s closed,” said the shark-bellied janitor. He leaned on his broom by the pillared antechamber threshold. The shark eyes in his stomach were shiny and half-lidded in boredom, but he bared his rows of pearly teeth.
The three held still a moment, crouched beneath the Wisdom’s portrait, as though caught in a heist. Tom leaned from the wall said, “We’re deciding on a plan.”
“Plan somewhere else.”
Honeydew clicked. “Can’t you chase the other group?” she asked, glaring at the janitor.
“They’re Defense Force. They can stay. You need to leave.”
Honeydew looked to Tom and Mr. Grey. “Let's run for the entrance,” she said. “We’ll outpace the hunters.”
Mr. Grey stood. He bumped his head against the Wisdom’s golden-hedgecherry-laden arms. The janitor growled. Mr. Grey said, “Apologies, we’ll leave now,” and waved the other two to follow.
They edged from under the Wisdom’s portrait, slipped from the antechamber, and crept back through the hall of robes. “I’ve got a better…” Mr. Grey began. He glanced at Honeydew. “I… think I have a good plan.”
Mr. Grey spoke while they crept through the gaunt, dusty museum. He spoke in a whisper. Honeydew and Tom listened. While they moved, the soldiers’ boots and the voices of Blackjaw and Slake chased. Sometimes the voices chased through distant corridors and exhibits, and they heard only the ghosts of echoes. Sometimes the voices felt right against their ears.
Mr. Grey finished speaking. They stood now in an interior courtyard of the museum, under the shaded intersection of three marble colonnades. Withered seaweed and fossilized coral splayed out beneath the sweltering Sun Fish light, surrounding the intersection in carefully arranged gardens. The whine of Slake and bark of Blackjaw swooped among the fossil-gardens from the balconies. Mr. Grey, Tom, and Honeydew felt exposed and surrounded. Nevertheless, they paused.
Tom looked to the balconies. He said, “If we split apart, I can’t protect you.”
“Keep your mallet sheathed, I think,” Mr. Grey answered. He looked at Tom, but Tom wouldn’t meet his eye. “This plan’s nonviolent.”
Honeydew said, “Once we’re split, you’ll just turn around, walk up to the finders, and submit,” She gave one pointy, accusatory click.
“Genuinely no. That was a mistaken thought, I do see that now.” Honeydew looked unconvinced. Mr. Grey added, “If it satisfies, you can hold my violin. As… plan insurance.”
He held the violin-coffin toward Honeydew, but Tom snatched it instead. With eyes still searching the balconies, Tom said, “You’ll play this again, only if we meet as planned.”
Mr. Grey was about to point out how he’d just suggested that very thing, when they heard another distinct trade of words from Blackjaw and Slake.
“Well my admirable inamorato, it seems we’re taken on a merry chase… ry chase… chase…”
“Real jackalope hunt… jackalope hunt… lope hunt…”
“Such a waste of valuable Glorious Defense Force time. And manpower… manpower… power…”
The words seemed to zoom just over their heads; as though Blackjaw prowled on one side of the balconies, and Slake lurked across the courtyard on another. All around were the soldiers’ tramping boots. Honeydew tugged the other two deeper into the colonnades’ pall. “No time to quibble.” She clicked decisively. She shoved Mr. Grey one direction, shoved Tom another, and shot off herself along a third. The three split, fleeing in different directions from the pursuit of Blackjaw and Slake.
Some while later, Tom wrestled his breath to a hold. He watched Blackjaw and Slake walk into his room. They skulked in the midst of a dozen soldiers wearing metal chestplates and bracers. The finders carried parchment and quills; the soldiers carried guns. The group stopped in the center of the room, surrounded by the featured display. Blackjaw and Slake gazed around from behind their circular, dark glasses.
“Dearest Blackjaw, I have a question for you.”
“What, Slake?”
“Have you ever seen such brutal barbarity - such vulgar violence - elsewhere paraded?”
“It’s grisly.”
“Oh yes! That’s the very word for it. Grrrr-Iz-Lee. Poor men and women; bereft of loan opportunities; pounding each other’s destitute bodies with… what are those things called again?”
“Mallets I think.”
“Mallets. Again, the very word. And some of these sculptures, they look so real!”
A soldier cut in. “The grey rebel who we’re after, and who you’re helping us find, is clearly not here. Let's move on.”
Blackjaw growled, Slake sighed. The pursuers left the Wine Medo Warfare Exhibit. Tom relaxed his posture with a sigh, and stowed his mallet.
After a stretch of time following, Honeydew’s narrowed eyes flicked to the hunting party as it reached her hiding place.
“Oh, but this does remind me of home! Doesn’t it remind you of home, Blackjaw?”
“Like a warm quill.”
“How many times has it been? You and I, finding our clients and ourselves in wheelhouses just like this?”
“Lots.”
“Do these machines work, I wonder? Maybe that shark-faced fellow can give us a free spin?”
Honeydew didn’t know it, but the same soldier who’d spoken in Tom’s room, spoke again now. “No time; this Mr. Grey must be elsewhere. Room like this, if he were here, he’d stick out like scales on a cowsowhorse.”
The group left the museum wheelhouse. Honeydew scowled after them.
At last, after the passage of many moments - almost an eon - Blackjaw and Slake came to Mr. Grey’s gallery. The grey eyes settled on them coolly.
“Now this room here, Blackjaw; this is what I love to see. Why, if misguided Mr. Grey would etch out a teensy little scrawl on an insignificant scrap of parchment, he could spend the rest of his days among such fine company. It’s just so… so…”
“Historic?”
“Stoney! Close, Blackjaw, but no. Stoney’s the word I want.”
The cold grey eyes followed; sliding sideways; voyeuresque; the only moving part of Mr. Grey; tracking the skulk of the finders underneath.
“Imagine how ancient some of these statues must be, dearest Blackjaw. How much effort - how much treasure - must have been in their making.”
“More than Mr. Grey has.”
“Oh far more. Far…”
The old soldier interrupted Slake for the third time. “Look, your man and our man’s clearly flown this place. He and his fellow barbarians must have slipped out a back exit. And all the while, you’ve had us wasting our time, touring these stupid exhibits. Let's head back to the street and pick up the trail from there.”
Blackjaw and Slake hesitated. But the Defense Force soldiers had guns, so the finders followed. Mr. Grey’s eyes followed too, until they’d left the room. Then Mr. Grey stepped down from the empty plinth - only slightly less stiff than the held position - among the rows of statues. He went to find his friends.
Honeydew, Tom, and Mr. Grey reunited beside a dried garden of coral, back in the courtyard. The balconies were echoless now. Without looking at him, Tom handed Mr. Grey his violin.
Before any of the three spoke, a voice growled from behind a pillar. “For the last time; THE MUSEUMS CLOSED!”
They turned - not that surprised - to see the shark-bellied janitor. He fixed them in his obsidian eyes.
“We’re leaving now, sir,” said Mr. Grey. “Sorry to have bothered you.”
The janitor glared. Mr. Grey, Tom, and Honeydew stepped toward the exit. Honeydew said, “Let's get back to the partisans. Maybe they were useful. Found us a guide.”
The three heard a sudden scraping of wood on stone. They spun round. The shark-bellied man dragged the handle of his crooked broom down the groove of a balustrade pillar. He stopped, laid the sweeping instrument on the floor, pulled a floppy, chicktail hat from where his robe bunched about the waist, and set it atop his head-fin.
“Need a guide?”
This has been In Different Color, a fairy tale.
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