Uglywood - Appetizer
Treats of Creeping Dusk
You’re snacking on In Different Color, a fairy tale.
See The Menu for more treats.
Time bloomed…
“Rowing’s so taxing. It’s prickled all my fingers, like poor pencil form,” said Mr. Grey.
“Use your back and legs,” suggested Tom.
As he helped Tom pull their wooden boat ashore, Mr. Grey thought the advice came a little late.
“Tom, I find this perplexing.”
“It takes the load off your arms. You push with your legs, and lean with your back.”
“Not about the form. Why are you following me? I’m not ungrateful,” Mr. Grey added hastily. “But there’s Honeydew. She’s alone at the moment. She might need guarding.”
“There’s little danger, it’s a ticker repair shop. Hers is the kid’s role.”
“But Gourd and Snow are still there. What if they attack?”
“Here in the country, you’re in the thicker danger.”
“I do appreciate it.”
Mr. Grey huffed a few huge breaths through his nose while pulling on the rope. Tom waved his free hand in abstract thanks. With the other he too heaved towards the treeline.
After a moment Mr. Grey said, “We’re often apart, Honeydew and I. I wish we worked together.”
Tom said nothing.
That day saw the eastern horizon speeding the sun to a Meteorball Tournament. In the undergrowth ahead of Mr. Grey, thickets of Panelplants turned their jade flowers through a swift arc as they followed the bustling solar disk to dusk.
“The sun’s getting low,” said Mr. Grey usefully. Tom grunted.
Together they pushed shoeprints into the wet sand of the shore, as they tugged on blistersome handfuls of rope. They closed the gap between themselves and the treeline. The golden orb above carried on its gameday scramble through the sky. It gave only a scanty few moments of light, making the day short. As Mr. Grey and Tom reached the woods’ edge, the swift-moving shadows cast by the three-pronged poetrees rotated around the trunks. The dark silhouettes passed over Mr. Grey and Tom like stop-motion. Tom lifted a hand to shade his eyes - out of form rather than necessity - and peered at the wood. Mr. Grey did the same.
Mr. Grey felt that whoever named this island forest ‘Uglywood’ had been unkind. True, the underbrush held enough dense shadows for a fairy tale. Maybe one could even call those shadows ‘uncanny’, when they moved in fast-forward through the diurnal cycle. There were, however, no gnarled roots blanketing the forest floor. Just regular roots, and grass that could use a trim, and patches of dirt. The trunks wore what looked like normal bark. Mr. Grey thought it would take an imaginative person to see malicious, malformed faces in any of the trees. There were no disembodied sets of eyes peering from nearby bushes, or owls hooting and shooting from their roosts, or giant cobwebs. There were no webs at all; not even the harmless little kind seen in grass after a morning dew. It seemed an ordinary wood. Not at all ‘ugly’ to Mr. Grey.
From the beach behind Mr. Grey heard the crash of the wine waves. He felt the lake’s cold mist on his neck. He turned to Tom. “So where is the Lord’s castle?” asked Mr. Grey.
Tom took Mr. Grey by the shoulder. They backpedaled into the soft sand until they stood free of the trees’ shifting shadow. Then Tom pointed above the forest line.
In the distance, sticking out on the slopes of a mountain hairy with the same forest, a boxy shape jutted from the canopy. Only the upper stories and sloped roofs could be seen in the waning day. The rest squatted behind the trees and the mountain’s jagged crags. The height, the forest, and the speeding sun made the distance hard for Mr. Grey to guess.
They walked back to the trees. “I don’t suppose there’s a road?” asked Mr. Grey. Tom shook his head and handed Mr. Grey a strand of rope. Mr. Grey tangled it through the prongs of a nearby poetree. He examined the forest floor. The short grass and sparse brush looked soft and inviting. “It seems like easy walking. Any Sourbeak nests?” Tom shrugged and glanced away into the woods.
Mr. Grey noticed Tom’s unusual reticence. “When will we reach the lord’s home?” he asked in a plain voice, but while looking pointedly at Tom.
Tom passed Mr. Grey another strand of rope without meeting eyes. “The woods make it hard to judge,” he said. Mr. Grey continued to stare. Tom turned his steel eyes skyward, to the fading sun. “We’ll need to make camp.”
“I suppose it’ll be cold?”
“I’ll make a fire.”
“Can Honeydew produce heat? Those house walls are thin. Fuel might be pricey. Will her treasure be enough? ”
Tom chuckled. “She’s warmer than us,” he said. “The night is colder, reaching Pygmy-Footed-Snake.”
Tom turned silent again. Mr. Grey asked, “What’s Pygmy like, Tom?”
Tom shuffled another lead of the webrope between his hands, then shoved it into Mr. Grey’s. Mr. Grey thought they had the boat well-fastened. He was on the verge of pointing this out, and Tom was on the verge of speaking, when the big man’s stomach grumbled. Looking oddly relieved, Tom said, “The gut interjects. We’ve made our vessel secure. Now for flames and food.”
Tom grabbed his mallet from the boat, wiped his brow with a sweaty handkerchief, and marched into the forest’s churning shadows. After a tock or two – the exact time was unknowable - Mr. Grey grabbed his briefcase and violin coffin. He followed.
This has been In Different Color, a fairy tale.
Ready for the Entrée?
Still hungry? See The Menu.