Team Games and Candles - Entrée

Treats of Whirlpool Coliseum Dodgeball

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“Let those who are about to play have a clean, fair match. Let there be no under-girdle strikes. Let there be no bandying that the ball brushed only the brim of the robe, when it be plain to all present that the ball did bounce the body. And let The Glory Days Rain-Fish Detainment and Entertainment Facility Whirlpool Coliseum Dodgeball Tournament… begin!”

Instantly after the announcer’s last word, metal trumpets blasted. The latch fastening Mr. Grey’s log raft to the marble coliseum wall came unbuckled. Mr. Grey set a leg and heel stiff on the back floor of the hollowed log. He steadied himself as the log lurched forward. It veered at an angle. Veered; into a swirling, spraying, dragon-engine-wailing whirlpool.

Across the broad, circular floor of the coliseum spun a maelstrom. The water ran with glass translucence. Mr. Grey fought for balance on the log; crystal waves smashed his sides, and the crystal foam sprayed in his eyes. The other members of his team managed their own logs with varying success. Some crouched low like pouncing cats, rocking in time with their crafts, scooping up heavy woolen dodgeballs floating in the water. Some struggled like Mr. Grey. Some of the tallest and heaviest on his team fell in the swirl the moment their buckles loosed. The trumpets rang out their disqualifications.

Mr. Grey saw Tom a few logs ahead in the spin. The cloud zeppelins on his robe skimmed over the clear water. He rode his log with strong, controlled swaying; as though he’d been born at sea, nursed atop driftwood by the rocking waves. Tom lined up a throw with his right hand, and let fly a soaked ball with his left. The missile soared across the whirl’s frothy eye. It smacked wetly against a foe’s chest, and knocked the man into the drink with a splash.

Tom pumped an elbow in triumph. He turned and saw Mr. Grey swirling behind. Tom gave Mr. Grey an encouraging thumb, then a sudden warning cry. Mr. Grey looked and saw a wet ball flying at him. He scissor-crouched just under its flight. The dodge unbalanced him and he fought for control, while the dripping wool sphere soared past. It smacked into one of his teammates, a big woman. She tumbled from her log with an upheaving splash, and the soldiers crowding the stands jeered at Mr. Grey.

“The Grey one’s playing for the other side!”

“Disrespectful to the fishes!”

“If you’re not going to catch balls thrown your way, at least pick one up and throw yourself!”

This last voice shouted above the dragon roar, with a familiar tone. Mr. Grey glanced at the stands while striking a crouched balance. In a pillared upper balcony lined with sculpted marble statues of shrimp, Diegeonary Ordus quivered. He paced back and forth along a silver-gilded balustrade. He looked uncomfortable in his seat, and hot in his face. He screamed again. “Come on man. Don’t just squat there. Put some effort in!”

Mr. Grey - never one to ignore orders from a king’s official - scooped a wool ball drifting on the swell. He stood like a new deer on the wet log, and looked across the pool’s eye.

The opposite team’s lighter bodies gave them an advantage in this sport. They balanced on the logs easier, and only two had tumbled at the launch. Mr. Grey saw the opposition’s grizzled captain, manning his log with practiced feet, landing shots hither and thither. Mr. Grey looked farther back in the swirl. He saw Honeydew. She seemed to bloom from her log as a sunflower bouquet. She leveled her own wet ball. Her eyes settled, not on a player, but on the posturing and angry diegeonary Ordus, up on his podium.

Mr. Grey saw her pause for a tock. She considered tossing her ball at the soldier. The tock passed, and Honeydew had to use her missile to block a throw from Tom. She turned her wrath back on the game. She retaliated with her own hurl. Tom swayed aside.

At this point, Mr. Grey’s log had drifted nearer Tom. Mr. Grey raised his voice over the dragon engine. “Wasn’t that throw a bit hard?”

Tom roared back at him. “That’s our idea! Don’t just float around the pool; engage in the game!”

Tom and Honeydew hurled balls back and forth. They hurled at each other, they hurled at other players. They matched their captains, and the soldiers in the stands, for rallying cries.

Mr. Grey weighed the cold, wet wool in his still-dry, grey fingers. Once he brought the dripping shot up to his shoulder. He readied a toss. But Mr. Grey’s fat team captain knocked the target into the frothing crystal first. He lifted his ball again a moment later. But his new target - a middle-aged woman in a chicken-wing robe with enormous ankles - was just keeping above water. She wheeled her arms in arcs of wrinkled, flapping skin. The shot felt unsportsmanlike, and Mr. Grey held back. Tom did not hold back. The wool connected; the waves rolled over the ankle-lady.

Water and tocks churned together under the broad, metal, dragon-engine-driven paddles. What had been two-dozen-odd ballers for both teams, became twelve for the opposite side, half a dozen for Mr. Grey’s. Tom, Honeydew, and Mr. Grey remained; unstruck from their logs, counter to Honeydew’s proposed plan. Not, however, from lack of enthusiasm by Tom and Honeydew. Both employed their full power in every throw. Their balls either tossed players from logs, or cracked out on the arena’s marble.

Mr. Grey had yet to throw his first ball, and the crowd of soldiers let him know.

“Is this guy even awake right now?”

“Come on pal, that waif was completely open!”

Even Tom yelled at Mr. Grey to, “Be a team player. You can’t afford to waffle. We’re losing, badly.”

Another voice from the stands yelled, “Just throw the ball already!” The last cry again came from Ordus. Mr. Grey interpreted the scream as a lawful command. Without considering friend from foe, Mr. Grey picked the first player he saw, dialed back his arm, and pitching-machine-hurled the wet, woolen globe.

The ball whizzed across the whirlpool’s eye.

It struck an opponent. The grey-haired captain with the laminated-parchment robe took the blow on his moley shoulder. The old man triple spun in the air while his log sailed from underneath. Then he dropped into the waves.

Mr. Grey felt bad as he recovered his stiff balance. The old captain had treated him kindly. But the clapping from the stands lifted Mr. Grey’s spirits. He turned to Tom, hoping for a sign of approval.

Tom’s back faced Mr. Grey. Mr. Grey saw Tom duck. Mr. Grey just had time to see a dark, round, wet, wooly shape rocket over Tom’s head. The shape widened, filling his vision, and smacked hard into Mr. Grey’s face.

Mr. Grey sank like a statue.

In the dizzy-spin and half-drowning which followed, Mr. Grey’s senses fed him only small fragments. He heard the announcer call it a rough shot. A moment after he felt himself dragged from the pool. His eyes flooded, for a tock, with rubies. Blood, he thought at first. Then, that he’d somehow fallen into a Wine Medo pond. Then he realized it was only a cardinal-feather gauze wrapping his forehead.

Mr. Grey thought, ‘at least this worked with Honeydew’s grand scheme’. He felt dizzy. Two soldiers rolled him onto a stretcher and carried him from the arena. He would try his best, he decided, to get their things from the infirmary.

Just as he passed from the open stands, into a dark tunnel leading from the coliseum, he heard a rising commotion. As of warriors, locked in shouldery combat. He heard, also, the distinct wheeze of bagpipes.

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This has been In Different Color, a fairy tale.

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