The Little Sea - Appetizer
Treats of Seaworthy Kettles
You’re snacking on In Different Color, a fairy tale.
See The Menu for more treats.
Mr. Grey paced. Back and forth; placing his feet with care not to stomp the delicate stems and tiny emerald bulbs of unbloomed chrysanthemums. Back and forth; carefully choosing his stride not to trip on the winding roots. Back and forth; under a hoary tree, beside The Little Sea of Dreams.
Mr. Grey spoke to himself. “What we need is a plan of… a plan of approach. To begin by figuring out where to begin. Find food? Find Jodee? Find the visa? We need a search pattern. Alphabetical, perhaps? That would put food first, which makes some sense. What do you think?” he asked with an abrupt turn.
Mr. Grey had addressed his question to a giant kettle. It looked like any ordinary kitchen tea kettle, except for its house-ish proportions; and except for a series of iron loops around its brim, as though it were meant to be hung from rafters of a mountain-ish proportion. It lay by a thin strip of pearly sand next to The Little Sea; half in the sand; half in the water, still and glossy with moonshine.
The water rippled suddenly as a lead slipper came soaring from the top of the kettle and landed in the sea with a splash. Honeydew followed the slipper part of the way. Her head appeared, disembodied, above the kettle’s brim. She looked across the rooty field of budding chrysanthemums for a moment before her eyes found Mr. Grey. She asked, “What did you say?”
“I was thinking food should be our first priority.”
“I’m looking. Nothing in here so far. Just a load of junk,” her head ducked back inside the giant appliance. Mr. Grey heard the clanking resume within; like a mother washing dishes while the rest of the family sleeps.
“What if we followed the shore?” Mr. Grey went on in a louder voice. He peered across the water. He didn’t know this was The Little Sea of Dreams, nor would that have been his first guess at its name. Under the dark of the night, the opposite shore of even a little sea hid from view. Mr. Grey went on, “It might be easier to find points of interest near the water. People like water, I think. No wonder at that; lakes and rivers are nature’s roads.”
Honeydew’s voice rang tinnily within the tea kettle. “Different plan; we circle back to the dance. That band had some real hits. And the forest-roaming dragon’s probably gone by now.”
“There wasn’t any food in the barn. Not even finger-kinds.”
“We should have grabbed some of the apples whacking our swan when it was upright. Stupid mistake.”
Mr. Grey thought the same. He checked his ticker. Above him, moonlight dropped through the barren limbs of the old tree. The branch and twig shadows crawled, like skeletal fingers, across the chrysanthemums, and the shiny water of The Little Sea, and Mr. Grey’s shoulders.
Honeydew’s voice reverberated in the kettle. “Try and squeeze some directions from this.” Another object arced out of the kettle, this time up through the spout. It landed with an accurate thump at Mr. Grey’s shoes.
Mr. Grey examined a device about the size of a cantaloupe. It was an astrolabe, with a viny pattern over its rete, and a silver rule. The craftsmanship looked simplistic, with rusting and wear at the edges. He glanced from the stars, to the instrument, and back at the stars. He said, “I’m not sure. Maybe it needs the sun?”
A cold chill glided past him; only a zephyr, not The Old Wind herself. It left ripples on the water and shook the distant line of younger trees. The skeleton-handed shadows of the old tree seemed to tickle Mr. Grey’s shoulders. He pulled his anchor shawl tighter. He said, “We should focus on finding Jodee. I mean after eating. But before we go back to that dance party.”
There was a pause to the commotion in the tea kettle. A wooden sword soared from inside and plopped into the water. “You didn’t even give dancing a try,” said Honeydew. A complaining click whistled out the spout.
Mr. Grey stumbled over one of the roots. He stopped, held still for a moment. He watched the chrysanthemum buds bobbing in the cold breeze. They made him think of Wine Medo; made him think of clouds. He looked away. He walked a few short, steady paces, over the alabaster line of sand, with the water’s edge just falling still again after the latest cannonball ripples from Honeydew. He looked down at the water. Though the surface was glassy smooth and glistened like a mirror, it seemed to twist the statuary reflection of Mr. Grey. Reflected on the water’s surface, against the backdrop of an ink sky pinholed by stars and punctured by the moon, his expression was that of someone who’s misplaced a thing dear to them, and begins to feel it lost forever. Mr. Grey’s reflection looked sad.
Honeydew broke the mirror; new ripples wiped Mr. Grey’s reflection away, as a toy crown plopped into the Little Sea. This time Honeydew’s voice whistled up the spout. “What I’d like to find is some coals in this tug. We’d have that old swan back on its webbing, and be ‘back by midnight’.”
Mr. Grey looked up from the ripples. “I think midnight’s perpetual in Dreamland.”
“You know what I meant.”
“I thought you wanted to see the sights?”
“Your point? And speak up.”
“You listed all those attractions back in the library tree. It seems a shame to keep returning to the barn.”
“We wouldn’t keep returning,” came Honeydew’s metallic, defensive reply from the kettle.
Mr. Grey returned to determined pacing, taking big strides whenever one of the roots twisted before his path. He studied the astrolabe a bit longer, but the skeleton hands of the tree obscured its surface from his view. He set it down in the stems and bulbs. “I do think our best course is to walk the shore. Let's forget this old metal boat if there’s no food inside.”
Just then a grinding noise came from inside the kettle. Mr. Grey swiveled with alarm to face the cauldron. He turned just in time to see another item Honeydew had flung - a single, shriveled, dried-up bean - plink into the Little Sea. The handles at the sides of the kettle vibrated and wagged suddenly, like paddles. A single shrill whistle of steam burst from the spout.
“Honeydew?” called Mr. Grey. He rushed toward the kettle, still taking care not to tread the chrysanthemums.
Honeydew’s head appeared above the brim. Her face was plastered with soot. All except for her mouth, which she bared in a shiny, confused smile. She said, “There was something stuck in the gears. I think this ship’s seaworthy.”
This has been In Different Color, a fairy tale.
Ready for the Entrée?
Still hungry? See The Menu.