The Little Sea - Entrée
Treats of Mr. Not Existing
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“A small lake, this,” said Honeydew. She leaned over the port brim of their vessel. She looked to the distant ivory strip of the shore, the woods lying behind it, and the elder tree they’d just sailed out from.
“A tockwise circuit of the shore, in under a ticker’s cycle,” agreed Mr. Grey.
“The water looked broader under that tree.”
“You don’t suppose this is another plant, a case of mistaken identity? Maybe it’s a twin-tree.”
“Could be. But unless another pair also left a kettle-shaped groove in the sand, I’d say that’s where we sailed from.”
Mr. Grey turned to the starboard side of the brim. He looked across the placid water. It surprised him that they still couldn’t see the far shore, despite having made the full round of the sea in under a moment. Mr. Grey leaned further out and glanced past the rounded metal hull. Beneath the pearlescent sheet of the surface, he saw aquatic flora and fauna. Gullfish swam the water in sad, solitary courses. Gaudy strands of seaweed - shiny, but dark like widow’s veils - undulated on a shallow sea floor.
Mr. Grey looked at Honeydew. “Why don’t we sail into the middle? Perhaps there’s some quaint little island in this pond. A place where birds lay their eggs.”
Honeydew shrugged. With her left hand set like a tank driver’s on one of the metal loops atop the kettle, she used her right to turn a dial on a control panel inside the kettle. A gout of steam whistled from the spout. Their boat turned, so that its back faced the old tree, and its spigot faced open water. The tank at the bottom of the vessel boiled, and their boat chugged smoothly into a not-so-wide sea.
Mr. Grey said, “It’s better than amphora sailing, I think.”
“Anything’s better than amphora sailing.”
“Did you notice anything on the shore?”
“No.”
“We should make a second round anyway. We could both use a substantial meal.”
Honeydew lost the sharp word she had on her tongue’s point; about there being plenty of food up in the trees, beyond their reach. A whistle, an ocarina melody, drifted across the water. The two looked behind.
The strip of sand and the old tree were gone, though they’d set out only a few tocks ago. By some strange feature of the sea, glassy water - still as the polished marble of a tomb - surrounded them on all sides. But for one exception, the expanse seemed more like some transitory plane of existence than a real world sea.
The exception was another ship.
A schooner furrowed the shiny ripples of their slipstream. Her golden hull pushed aside the sea in a gentle way; as a duck or goose seems to swim without breath or motion. Her golden masts carried sails like the inky, silky seaweed dancing below the water’s surface. The woven bolts of widow’s-veil strained in taught curves against their beams. The Old Wind straddled a stool on the ship’s deck - one of its two passengers - and breathed heavily on the schooner, so that it cut a fast course toward Honeydew and Mr. Grey’s kettle.
The other passenger sat big and tall - too big, too tall - on a short stool of old wood opposite The Wind. He wore the Dreamland style of cardigan-robe, cut from fabric like spider’s fur. A mass of untrimmed, hoary hair dangled from his chin; many of these long wire-brush strands clung loose to the shoulders and chest of his robe, like pet hair. Mr. Grey saw all these features of the man by way of the quickly-closing space between their vessels. He saw, also, that with one hand the gangly man held the ocarina to the wirebrush beard and blew forth the airy enchantment. The other hand held a small cup, which it shook with a rattle.
The tall man released a pair of fingers from the cup’s lid. Dice tumbled from within and rattled over the schooner’s deck. They stopped between the man and The Wind.
“Looks like ‘game’ to me,” cried the man suddenly, taking the ocarina from his lips. The melody ended. “Did I win? Did I win?!”
The Old Wind’s grumble-thrummed through the taught sails. “It’s not that kind of game. You don’t roll the dice to win. It’s about the story.”
“Boring,” said the man. He turned a pair of greasy, deep, baggy eyes - looking more like empty sockets - on Mr. Grey and Honeydew. He lifted the ocarina back to his lips and gave three sharp whistles.
The twain in the kettle knew the whistles were a signal meant for them. Honeydew pulled at a round knob on the control panel. Their spigot belched out a gout of steam. The boiling water in their hull tank dropped to a simmer, then to only an angry temper. Their boat chugged, and came to a stop. Echo-ripples rolled away from them on The Little Sea of Dreams.
The schooner glided alongside. It passed through the water soundlessly. Mr. Grey did hear a soft hooing noise from the mizzenmast, and noticed an owlbatross perched contentedly on the crossbeam. The delicate sails fluttered and relaxed as The Old Wind left off blowing. Mr. Grey raised a hand in greeting. He hoped The Wind would recognize them this time, and do the honors of introduction. Instantly after quitting the sails, however, she set out on a brisk stroll on the moonlit sea. She circled around the two ships, leaving a pointed wake like a shark’s fin.
Mr. Grey turned to the tall man on the golden schooner. The fellow dropped his ocarina and dice cup into one deep pocket of his robe. He pulled out a pack of cigarettes from another, lit one with a spark he made by flicking his fingernails together, and took a drag. After a tock he held the cigarette away, and said, “Yo.”
“Good evening, sir,” said Mr. Grey.
“Hi,” said Honeydew. Her voice had some of that hesitant, oddly-demure tone; the same one she’d spoken with at the McDourr’s library.
The man wafted a tiny trail of cigarette smoke before his socket-eyes. In a matching smoker’s voice, he asked, “Know who you’re chatting at pal?”
Honeydew shook her head, but Mr. Grey said, “I think I do recognize you, sir.” Honeydew looked sharp at Mr. Grey. His face, of course, betrayed not a thing.
“Be pleased to say it.”
“We have the honor of addressing Not-Existing?”
Honeydew’s knuckles paled on the rails. The tall man took another long pull, and a look of annoyance wrinkled his socket-eyes. He said, “It pestles my nerves when people- nope, forget it. Look, Prince and Princess, you two gotta bounce.”
“Pardon us. Are we not supposed to be here?”
“Not supposed to… Duuuuude. It’s The Little Sea of Dreams. You can’t just sail private water.”
“We’re sorry. We were just trying to get a lay of things.”
“Trying to peek my crib, probably.”
“You have a seaside house? An island?” asked Mr. Grey. He was already beginning to feel The Little Sea had more to it than the tiny round of its shore they’d made.
“An exclusive resort. I’m very picky. Only someone who’s somebody gets in. Sick security service; hired a couple nuckelavee to keep off the crashers. Got some trow for bottle service, and this chill firbolg I know tends the bar. Thousands on thousands of rows of strobing candles; some big, some medium, some real tiny. When the crowd’s not trippin’ over the burial mounds, they’re chillin’ by the shuddering pools, or flirtin’ with shots of Averna.”
As the tall man had spoken of his island retreat, he’d leaned out, further and further, over the side of his vessel. Mr. Grey, and Honeydew too, had been drawn out over their boat’s brim, so engaged were they by the description. Now, the two sides of the two ships reflected on the water of The Little Sea of Dreams. On the one side; Honeydew and Mr. Grey, leaning out from the rounded, silvery hull of a tea kettle; Honeydew with her flaxen hair, and her robe of lily-eyes, and her oil-eyes shiny with intrigue and fear; Mr. Grey with his unreadable sobriety, looking cut from marble. On the other side, the tall man on his golden schooner; with his chin of long, ashen, hoary hair; with his socket-eyes; with his reflected cigarette trailing reflected smoke. And, between these two sides, still on the sea’s surface as though painted there; a crescent moon.
The reflection of the man in the golden schooner vanished as he leaned suddenly back. He held his cigarette absently away and stared hard at Mr. Grey. He said, “Hold a tock. I know you.”
“Mr. Not-Existing, we haven’t had the… direct… We haven’t met professionally.”
“That’s the oathful truth! Unprofessional for sure, that whole Maysey stunt.”
“The Maysey stunt?”
“Duuuuude. You cramped Maysey’s style, back in Glory Days. Right when she was looking prime for my VIP pass. Not cool, Mr. Grey.”
“I’m sorry if I offended you. But, you know, I believe it’s what she would’ve wanted. And she wasn’t in any condition to choose.”
“You think she wants some guy who could wear a tye-dye like a three-piece jumping in on her business?”
“I think Ms. Maysey likes existing, Mr. Not-Existing. Even if it’s a sickly kind.”
“Whatever man. Point is, you two gotta scram.”
The man made a dismissive wave of his hand. Honeydew reached under the brim to start their kettle’s engine. Mr. Grey raised an interjecting finger to halt both. He said, “We’ll absolutely get off your water. Quickly though; have you seen a girl named Jodee? Jodee Coats?”
“And tell us about this resort,” added Honeydew. She clicked; a tongue-pop somewhere between aversion, and macabre fascination.
“No,” said the man in answer to both. His socket-eyes narrowed.
Mr. Grey angled physically back. He said, “Is there any favor we might trade? Or maybe, possibly, there’s someone who doesn’t quite fit your island? If there’s anyone who you’d like to leave, Mr. Not-Existing, we’d happily ferry them.”
“You could show us the island too,” added Honeydew. “Leave a real impression. I can’t picture what we’re missing from words alone.”
“No,” repeated the man. He took a long pull from his cigarette, then exhaled the smoke to form the word, ‘leave’. Mr. Grey saw, from the chiseled-stone corner of his eye, a motion on the still water. The Wind veered toward their two craft.
“Please,” said Mr. Grey quickly. “Surely not every person on your island deserves- has earned a spot there? Isn’t there some fish contract we can make?”
“No.”
“What about treasure? I have plenty.”
Mr. Grey reached into his treasure sack and grabbed the first two shiny pebbles his fingers found. But he hadn’t drawn them from the sack before the man in the golden schooner laughed. It was an awful sound; a high rattle from a fume-wracked throat, but with a volume that made the sails flicker and snap Windlessly.
The man cleared his throat with a scratchy cough, and said, “Venture here when you’ve got some style, Mr. Grey.”
Mr. Grey tried again, though he felt the words to be in vain. “Could you at least point us to where we can get a meal?”
No answer. The hollow sockets looked bored as they turned away from the pair in the kettle. The coal-dark cardigan-robe billowed as the fellow took long, gliding steps toward the helm.
Honeydew found her umbrage. She said, “Who does he think he is, this ‘Not-Existing’?!”
At that moment, however, the Old Wind struck them broadside. A radical wave - a single crest of water on the otherwise tranquil sea - smashed their kettle. They didn’t capsize, but their boat pitched away from the schooner. Almost instantly, they saw the distant pale finger of the sandy shore appear, along with the old tree.
As The Old Wind howled around them, and the wave pushed them, they heard the voice of the gaunt man. It reached them from the golden boat with the silken sails; through the crash of the waves, and the howl of the wind; like the funeral gong of a church bell echoing over moor and lake.
“By the way, Not-Existing is my Dad’s name.”
They heard a plink and a hiss; a cigarette hitting The Little Sea of Dreams.
“Call me Death.”
This has been In Different Color, a fairy tale.
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