Swampus Maximus - Appetizer
Treats of The Stone Man
You’re snacking on In Different Color, a fairy tale.
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“O’ lucky crowd; you blessed ones whose fortune it is to witness this forty-dozenth running of cowsowhorses over hoof-clutching earth! Praise to the Glorious Defense Force for the hosting. Praise for their certain victory in the coming battle with Horde-Masser Coats. See now, the final range of glory-seekers. As they ready their nerves, take your stock of each: Hide-tanner Orguonus, Salmon-favored Polytetes, The Oracle Eater, Bello the Near-Darter, Never-Losing-Neleum, The Sweet Relisher, The Dill Relisher, and - latest of competitors - The Stone Man. Give them your cheers, while to the fish they offer final Praise!”
The race announcer’s voice boomeranged tockwise through the ovular stadium reef. The voice shook the shaped-coral seats: branchy rows of ferny elkhorn chairs, clusters of fuzzy lapin pillars, uncomfortable benches of prickly, lambent fingers, like rays of sunshine. The voice reached the section of the Glory Day’s locals, who let up a particularly loud bellow for Never-Losing-Neleum. The voice moved on. It traveled through empty seats. It traveled through sections for tourists of other Odormoats: Starharbor, Wine Medo, Dreamland. Each section cheered for their own representative champions. Even the newcomer received a polite patter of applause from the Starharbor party. The Stone Man, or (of course) Mr. Grey.
After the voice made the full round of the reef bleachers, it dropped into the buzzing, slimy mire which was the stadium floor. It passed over a focus of the oval field where the riders, clueless to what the crowds had been cheering for up to that point, listened as they sat atop their cowsowhorses. There, the voice reached Mr. Grey. He heard it as a muffled, ringing, tinny tone, through an iron helmet.
Mr. Grey looked - with difficulty - down at Honeydew. She wore tall waders which shielded her against the deep swamp water. She had a hand on their cowsowhorse’s flank for balance. Mr. Grey said, “Are you sure I need this helmet? These things aren’t that fast. This one, especially, should have a leisurely stride.”
“Even more so in this terrain,” added Honeydew, nodding.
“Excellent. No need for this helmet.”
“Sure, take it of; if you want Ordus to notice you. And ruin the plan.”
Mr. Grey stopped, his gray fingers splayed on either side of the heavy metal headgear. “You think he’d recognize me? At this distance?”
“I’m surprised he hasn’t guessed already. What with that racing name they gave you.”
Mr. Grey’s sigh rang dully inside the helmet. He set it back to weigh against his skull. Mr. Grey twisted his body, tilted his neck - again with difficulty - and peered through the narrow rectangle in the iron constituting his field of view.
High and to his left, among the tiered seats for the Glory Days crowd, a wavy-edged lettuce-coral jutted from the stands, like an eggplant wedge. It formed a balcony for the Very Important Spectators. Glorious Defense Force soldiers lined its rim, their metal breastplates glinting in the sun fish light. Their guns were drawn, but at ease. A dozen thrones made from buttermilk sea fans perched on the overlook. Ordus the Diegeonary sat on one such throne. The seashell trumpet across his lap, the stripes across his copper armor, and the expression of severe impatience across his face, all singled him out from the other Defense Force leaders. This officer caste waited with tapping impatience for the announcer to begin the race, while hired menials offered polished platters of cottonfruit, or fanned them with smaller lettuce-coral leaves.
The announcer called again the moment Mr. Grey looked. He saw the reaction of Ordus - a purse of the lips and an antsy repositioning on the throne - long before the announcement reached him, down in the swampy racecourse.
“O’ riders, make final your getting-ready. Then banish your crews, that we shall begin!”
Mr. Grey swayed his head back to Honeydew. She drew her hand from the cowsowhorse’s flank and turned to go. He said, “And you’re sure I have to be in the back? To be last? Won’t I still lose if I come in the middle?” His voice rang out of the helmet’s slit, but the pufferfrogs croaking in the reeds prevented their being overheard.
Honeydew folded her arms across the golden-lily-flower robe. “Not enough of a loss,” she said. She patted the bright, dappled, coal-and-pearl flank of Mr. Grey’s mount. “We wouldn’t even earn back the carafe it cost you to do the fur-change on this stupid animal.”
The ancient cowsowhorse, whose usual coating was the same as Mr. Grey himself, groaned under Honeydew’s hand. Mr. Grey doubted the animal capable of anything but last place.
Honeydew went on, “If you came in first we’d win the grand prize. That could also work. The beast looks capable.” She clicked once, sarcastically.
Mr. Grey said, “No, last is the surest way. I’m… I think I’m ready.”
“It plays to our strength better. You don’t know racing, but I know odds. You’re highly favored, on that fine-looking beast. You lose badly; we win big.”
Mr. Grey nodded; he regretted it as the helmet banged against the back and front of his head. He set his gaze down the long, straight, divided track of muddy, misty, croaking swampland. His cold gaze connected with one unfortunate pufferfrog atop a mossy, wooden log; it instantly exploded.
Mr. Grey heard, dulled by the helmet, the splash of Honeydew’s waders in the water. He cranked his head back to her. The metal banged on his temple. He said, “It shouldn’t be too exciting.”
Honeydew turned. “What?”
“I mean, I think this scheme will work.”
She raised an eyebrow. “Right. If there’s nothing else, I want to watch. And track our bet.”
“Actually, one thing,” Mr. Grey ducked a hand suddenly into a pocket. The polished case of his ticker glimmered in Sun Fish light, until a film of putrid swamp air condensed on it like lizardskin. “Again, there’s little danger in this race. Just in case, could you hold my ticker?”
Mr. Grey offered the ticker, but Honeydew waved her hand and clicked with humor. “You’ll be fine. You keep hold of it.”
The water splashed as Honeydew turned her waders. She looked at the crowd. Mr. Grey realized he still had the ticker outstretched. He returned it to its pocket after wiping off the swamp slime. Honeydew drew her hand mirror and became very interested in composing her hair. For several tocks, the pufferfrogs croaked louder.
Finally Honeydew said, “I should go before the announcer complains.” She splashed around to leave.
Mr. Grey suddenly decided, however, that he should express himself clearer. He said, “I like that we’re collaborating on this scheme.”
At first Honeydew whirled with an exasperated look shining in her dark eyes. But those eyes glowed with sudden interest, as though reconsidering. She spoke with carefully chosen cadence and words. “You mention collaboration. We should consider what comes after.”
“After?” asked Mr. Grey. It came out the same way as every one of his utterances, but the reverberations of the metal helmet lent a ring of hope to the word.
“If this scheme works, what’s the plan for future travel?”
The old cowsowhorse shuffled beneath Mr. Grey. He brought a finger to the helmet’s chin guard and pondered. “A good question. I suppose at some point… that is, we should consider… how we’d go about… returning home?”
“Oh I agree,” said Honeydew earnestly. “We need a return plan.”
“Of course we can see other sights first. But most of our funds are back in Starharbor. And we should take care not to exhaust our cologne.”
Honeydew placed a finger on her own chin. “I’ve a fix. Another collaborative scheme.”
Mr. Grey leaned closer, but pulled back when the helmet tried dragging him off the old cowsowhorse. Honeydew went on, “What if you return to Starharbor right after we wrap this Jodee-visa business? You’ll find your baseline, get whatever treasure you need, restock cologne. Meanwhile I’ll take the visa. I’ll stay in Glory Days. Or wherever our vacation’s destined next. I’ll find the best sites. We can skip the boring ones when you return.”
Just then the announcer’s cry, running its circuit through the stands unbeknownst to Mr. Grey, reached him. “Ready yourselves, glory seekers! The race begins in short!” Mr. Grey’s cowsowhorse jumped, as much as the old beast could, at the sudden sound. Mr. Grey’s grip tightened on its loose fur.
Honeydew said, “Think about it,” She clicked farewell and waded away through the mire.
Mr. Grey had no chance to ‘think about it’. A clap of cymbals shook the swampy reeds on the heels of the announcement. The “race” began.
This has been In Different Color, a fairy tale.
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