The Abyssal Desert - Entrée
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“I wonder how it got here,” said Mr. Grey. “Do they just wander? Roaming the desert; chewing kelp, mating, nursing?”
Tom lifted his head off their ride’s neck. “Now we have some breathing room,” he said as he arced his eyes over their new, extra-wide bubble.
The two stood on a pallet of rock over a dimple in the Abyssal Desert. The blindingly-pearl bones of an ancient coral reef - long bereft of existence - jostled up from the sea floor as a ridged backdrop. The dimple’s sand was powder and dry; at odds with the soaked sea floor they’d thus far trod. Their bubble of air too, while still oppressively hot, was now thrice the volume, and half as humid. The dimple sloped gradually to its basin, where dry driftwood and seaweed lay in a heap. A snowy cowsowhorse mare rustled around this cozy bowl, nursing a fillycalflet.
The silence which passed this time was both tired and awkward. Mr. Grey twisted a heel against the stone. He said, “We don’t have a choice here Tom. You need nutrients.”
“You think I don’t know?” said Tom. He laid his head on the spine with a sulking look. “You’re starving just like I am.”
“You’ve been sick for a while, Tom.”
“I’ve felt just fine until now. Or since this long trek. That doesn’t matter. How should we, um, set about?”
Mr. Grey smoothed his robe. Then he stuffed a hand in a pocket and checked his ticker. Tom scratched his head. They stared down the bowl’s sandy slope at the mare and young foal. Mr. Grey thought of a mashed-bean cutlet with a cream-bean drizzle. Tom thought of candy.
Mr. Grey said, “Will this be disrespectful? These cowsowhorses, they’re venerated.”
“What do you suggest?” asked Tom.
“Maybe we take them with us; the mother and child. We walk on a bit, and think it over some more.”
Tom’s relieved sigh rustled the back fur of his cowsowhorse. He nestled his bristly cheek on the shoulder fur. “Go prod the mother,” he suggested.
Mr. Grey left the ledge and descended the slope. Each even footstep made tiny sand landslides. Reaching the base, he crunched over the tangled nest of wood and weeds. He looked between the tired, round eyes of the mother and the wet, bright ones of the calf. Mr. Grey set a tentative hand against the flank of the mother and gave a light shove. She snorted. He did the same with the calf. It let out a high moosquealwhinny. The mother looked at Mr. Grey with danger-eyes and made an un-herbivore-ly lowing noise; more like the growl of a bear. Mr. Grey edged slowly back. He trudged up the slope to Tom.
“I don’t think she’ll move,” said Mr. Grey. He folded his arms and tapped his foot against the stone.
Tom released a flaky, disappointed breath. “Dang, I was hoping.”
“Well, it’s for the best. We’re too-long deprived of food.”
“I guess lead this plodder down.”
Mr. Grey took their animal’s bridle in an extra-dry hand. He led their cowsowhorse, with Tom lying atop, into the bowl. Neither mare nor calf distressed over the bull’s company, and the bull carried himself with gentlemanly deportment. Their animal nuzzled at the nest, then crunched a withered seaweed leaf; a sound like cereal without milk.
“Well, now we’re down here,” said Mr. Grey. He consulted his ticker as if verifying the statement.
Tom slid off the cowsowhorse’s back. He landed on his feet. He wobbled and squeezed Mr. Grey’s shoulder for support.
Mr. Grey tried avoiding everything with his eyes - and ended by settling them on the bulby protrusion of the dry coral backdrop - as he spoke on. “So just to be clear; when we… speak of ‘it’ - doing ‘it’ for nourishment - what does ‘it’ entail?”
Tom pulled his hand from Mr. Grey and braced himself on the cowsowhorse instead. He said, “I think we’re on the same page.”
“Not… not the calf, right?”
Tom shook his head. “We’re speaking of milk?”
Mr. Grey nodded. Neither looked at the other. Mr. Grey eventually said, “One of us has to go first. You need the milk more.”
“Ahhh… but isn’t that risky? What if I get worse? You should test it first, to make sure it’s safe to drink.”
Mr. Grey writhed internally. “You know I’m not that hungry, now I think of it,” Mr. Grey - a strict observer of King’s Law - had his stomach rumble at that precise moment. Tom managed a small lift of his leaden, fuzzy brow.
Mr. Grey said, “Oh alright then, I’ll go first. But how exactly?”
Tom tried shaking his head; the motion made his whole body wobble. “I’m having trouble thinking.”
Mr. Grey bent at an acute angle and looked beneath the mare. “Do you have a bowl?”
“No, but you could use your hands. Cup them together.”
“Would you be willing to squeeze? Since I’m going first.”
Tom nodded. He set a pithless palm on Mr. Grey’s shoulder. Together they walked astride the nursing mare. The foal retreated a few wobbly, short, pig-leg steps. It sat in the crumbly brush and watched them with its wet, inquisitive eyes. Mr. Grey and Tom crouched beside the snowy cowsowhorse. Mr. Grey cupped his hands and held them beneath the udders, while Tom reached out and squeezed. They looked anxiously on the mare’s face; she only looked tired.
Tom tried a few squeezes. He found a working method by wrapping his large hand around all the teats at once and compressing his fingers sequentially, from the middle to the pinky. Eventually, Quad-streams of cowsowhorse milk splashed into Mr. Grey’s bowled hands. Then it splashed right back out. After a few tocks, Mr. Grey and Tom stepped back. Mr. Grey’s hands were - abnormally - wet, but held no drinkable amount of milk.
Mr. Grey said, “You’d think there’d be shells nearby… What do we do now?” He wiped his hands on his robe, and the Sun Fish baked them instantly dry.
“You’ll just need to, well you know,” began Tom. He blinked woozily. “Get your head beneath. Then open your mouth.”
“Should we think of something else? This seaweed, foinstance. I’ve heard it’s wholesome.”
“It’s also salty. Remember the seawater? The milk’s not just food; it’s also fluid.”
Mr. Grey went for his ticker again, but Tom grabbed his wrist. The big man’s hand - normally warm and sweaty - felt cold and dry as Mr. Grey’s. Tom said, “We’ve come this far already.”
In a tone of admitted defeat, Mr. Grey said, “Well then I suppose… If it keeps us existing.”
Mr. Grey got beneath the udder. Tom squeezed the mare’s milk into his mouth. It was warm, and the best thing Mr. Grey ever tasted.
“What are you doing with my cowsowhorse?” asked a voice from the ridge.
This has been In Different Color, a fairy tale.
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