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Mr. Grey splashed onto a gritty shore of soft, cinnamon sand; like some primordial, aquatic mutant, paving the evolutionary road for his offspring. He emerged from a pond of medium-bodied wine, the ripples of which reflected the sun’s pale gold. Drenched and besotted from the cloying wash, he half-dragged, half-crawled himself from the pool. A slimy trail of fermented sand formed in Mr. Grey’s wake. He eventually reached a transitory place, where the fuddled beach sand gave way to short, tough grass.
Mr. Grey rolled onto his back. He stared blankly into the lake of the sky, sailed by The Wind’s puffy cloud ships. Concentrated thought felt slippery to grasp at that moment. Mr. Grey had only swallowed a tiny mouthful of pond wine at his cannonball arrival. The wine must have been an especially strong proof. Or perhaps the sweet, damp coating on his skin and clothes had some lingering effect. Either way, Mr. Grey felt tipsy.
His grey eyes rolled from one side of the sky lake to the other in panoramic arcs. They caught, as though hooked, on each noteworthy cloud. Here, they latched on a cloud shaped like Jack York’s telecards. There, they spotted a fleecy dragon tram. His arms and legs seemed to have put on a boulder’s worth of weight, while somehow keeping their slender figure. His mouth opened in a prodigious yawn.
After the passage of some uninterrupted time, Mr. Grey felt dry enough to manage simple thoughts and operations. His first task was to check his ticker. He found it in its usual pocket. The sun’s rays glared off its glassy, wet face as he held it before his own stony one. He spent another passage of time deciphering the meaning of the hands. Eventually, he concluded it to be sometime past midday.
This was a troubling discovery. With the setting of the sun would come the rising of stars and moon. A sure signal for night to begin. Mr. Grey would be alone, in a strange place, in the cold, shadowy dark. Any strange creatures - giants maybe, or the unseen threats hinted at by Mr. York - might lurk up to him. Mr. Grey worried about this for a while. His thoughts remained too fuddled for solution-finding.
He returned the ticker to his soaked robe’s pocket. A new worry crossed his mind; that the grey robes would soon show a new burgundy dyeing if he didn’t take special care in their washing and drying. He thought then of his spare clothing, packed tightly into his suitcase. Now packed more tightly, he thought, after the giant had crushed them. Lying in some unknown reach of Wine Medo. At least his ticker hadn’t been with the other luggage.
And he still had his treasure purse, he remembered, as he felt that fortune sack tucked inside his robes. He still had all the treasure he’d need for food and accommodations. It too was soaked in wine, but no matter. A wine stain didn’t drop a feather’s value.
For another long passage of time Mr. Grey thought in a back and forth way, over these and similar petty concerns, never moving to action. A familiar face interrupted his day-worries. With a fickle, flighty, gusty rustle of the tall reeds on the side of the pond, a ripple across the anemic surface of the wine, and the smell of rain, The Wind touched down on the sand beside Mr. Grey.
Mr. Grey pushed fingers gritty with sand through his wet hair, then propped himself up on exact 45-degree elbows. He spent a tock focusing his eyes on the air, then said, “Oh… Hello, Wind. Remarkable you're here.” He swallowed dryly. “I mean, it’s a pleasure to see you.”
The Wind that Smelled like Rain danced in the air. She dragged her sailing clouds through the sky overhead, dropping shadows over the land. “Eek, a drunken man!” She screamed. Her voice reeked of overt theatricality, and blew cold against Mr. Grey’s wet clothes.
The Wind calmed herself with a breathy gasp. “Ah, it’s Mr. Grey. I didn’t recognize you.” She whistled at the fumes coming off of him. “You’re merry today.”
“I didn’t… I mean to say, sorry. It might just be the clothes you know. They feel heavy on me. Don’t suppose you’d lift a hand? If you’re not, not busy, I understand.”
“Mr. Grey, shocking! You without inhibition. It’s just scandalous.” The Wind that Smelled like Rain spoke in a half-teasing way, much different from the Gaunt, Brooding, Hungry tone she usually took in Starharbor.
“The trouble is… The thing is, Wind; I don’t know how I’m to get dry.”
“I go for coffee. Or you can try a quick jog. Can you even stand?”
Mr. Grey tried. Usually an expert at standing - in the ‘still’ mode - Mr. Grey showed poorly on this occasion. First he shoved himself off the sand into a sitting position. He stayed sitting for a moment, swaying all the while. Then he positioned into a tentative crouch. Then he swayed some more. Finally he pushed himself upright. He fell down. He tried again. He eventually did stand, with all the surety of a wobblesome fawn.
Mr. Grey ground his heels into the sand. “I think I’m ready,” he said. He remembered his customary courtesy. “If, if you’re willing. To air dry me.”
“Only if you’re sure.”
Mr. Grey nodded to show how sure he was. He nearly fell again.
The Wind batted him playfully a few times. Mr. Grey dug his feet in more solidly. Then she stopped. Mr. Grey was about to remonstrate with her. Well, not exactly ‘remonstrate’, per se. Even drunk, remonstrating wasn’t one of Mr. Grey’s modes of discourse. He was, however, going to politely suggest that The Wind hadn’t done much to blow him dry.
He didn’t get the chance. With a furious whipping of the fruity atmosphere, The Wind struck. She swatted him from the left. Then came in with a scything blow from the right before he fell. Mr. Grey teetered in the sudden gale-force kneading of his skin and clothes. The Wind smacked him, coldly and many times. It didn’t do much to dry him out, for she was a wet Wind. It was, however, a watery kind of wetness, rather than wine. If nothing else, it washed off the spirits and freshened him up with its brisk chill.
The Wind abated. Mr. Grey found his footing. Not yet fully sober, still damp and cold, Mr. Grey nevertheless felt refreshed by the harsh wash. He opened his mouth to thank The Wind, and to follow it up with an improvised question list, starting with where he was. She didn’t give him the chance. Immediately after she stopped blowing, she sighed away. He watched the tall grass rustle as she swept over a hill.
Mr. Grey turned to the terse, earthy bank leading up and away from the wine pond. A narrow rut of sand ran up the incline. This he followed. His steps grew surer as he regained his walking rhythm.
At the top of the rise Mr. Grey discovered a less-narrow road. It ran in a slapdash way through the distant valleys and over the rounded hills. It was a dirt road, nary a stone in sight. Not at all like the jelly covered, cobbled roads of Starharbor. Nevertheless, a road it was, and preferable to the not-road on its flanks. Mr. Grey recovered his usual pace as he started down it.
This stretch of speechless, eventless walking down a dirt road afforded Mr. Grey his first reflective moment in a long time. He hadn’t been alone with his thoughts since boarding the train with Honeydew. Mr. Grey took full advantage. As he walked he passed his eyes over the landscape, and let his ears ring with the sound of wilderness.
On his left, the rolling land expressed a poxy face of basins. Each divet in the earth brimmed of sand like allspice, and blushing wine ponds like the one in which Mr. Grey had dropped. He searched for other passengers emerging from the drink, but saw none. More chicktail fronds danced gently along the shores. Here and there, a larger, barkier, three-pronged plant emerged near the wine. These were trees - real wooden ones, Mr. Grey guessed - with sparse leaves. They stood several times Mr. Grey’s height at their tallest, with a tall central prong, and shorter ones on either side. Mr. Grey would later learn that members of this species were called poetrees.
Off to his right, where the land sloped skyward into higher foothills, the poetrees formed a dense wood. From the woods he heard the whispers of the underbrush, and scurries of bestial passage.
Mr. Grey stuck close to the left side of the road.
Without protective cologne, Mr. Grey also felt the region’s keen scents forcing themselves up his nose. The Wind had left her petrichor odor behind after she’d gone. It clung to Mr. Grey’s skin and ran down the grass blades in cold, dewy drops. Behind the rain scent was a crisp, natural smell. Not quite flowery, but like fresh-picked tomatoes, and wet dogs, and honey, and bay leaves. All these foreign scents foisted themselves on Mr. Grey, taking advantage of his defenseless nostrils. He tried taking shallow breaths through his mouth, fearing an odor attack. It helped that his sense of smell - as may be recalled from its sparse involvement in the bean factory chapter - was not the cleverest crow in the murder.
For a long while Mr. Grey traveled the road in his tipsy, scenic reverie. By the time the sun started on its last quarter, Mr. Grey felt tremendously sober. Anxieties crept in to fill the liquor’s void. These worries miserably complemented a headache and dry mouth. He worried about Honeydew, and where she’d been tossed. He hoped she’d landed safely, in an ordinary pond of jelly.
Mr. Grey, lost in such concerns, noticed neither the approaching fork in the road, nor the sign splitting it, until he’d brought his nose up to the latter’s gnarled wood. He stepped back and looked up at the large, painted piece of bark nailed to the crooked post. Words of peeling paint were written on the bark. They read:
‘Blossoms of the North.
‘Roses of the East.
‘Tulips of the South.
‘Daisies of the West.’
- Dancing-Under-Waves’s Guide to Flower Arranging
Mr. Grey found this a confusing sign to press his nose against. He spent several moments trying to shape meaning from the words. Based on the sun’s spot in the sky, he believed one prong of the fork bent to the northwest, the other northeast, and the road he’d come from, south. Mr. Grey couldn’t remember seeing any tulips or tulip-shaped flowers along the road. Nor did he think the directions to various flowers particularly helpful to a lost traveler. Both branches of the fork rolled down the slopes at a similar gradient, out of the foothills.
Mr. Grey scratched his scalp where a tenacious atom of chicktail pollen still terrorized his skin. He shrugged, and said aloud to himself, “I do think I’ll take the leftmost path whenever the road splits,” He almost spoke on. But Mr. Grey reserved talking to himself for the secure privacy of his workers’ prison cell. He glanced into the three-pronged forest on his right, felt the sensation of being watched, and fell silent.
Mr. Grey set off in his chosen direction.
The unvaried ruby gleam of the wine lakes gradually gave way to a mix of flushed and pale polka-dots. Different wine ponds appeared like patches of powder and blush on the hills’ dimpled cheeks. When the road humpbacked over one especially tall hill, Mr. Grey had a scenic view of far mountains. The train ride, the giant’s throw, the wine pond dunking; all had left Mr. Grey without his sense of direction. He didn’t know if Starharbor lay in those mountains. He did see one boxy, manmade shape roosting on the distant slopes, but it was too small and too woody to be Starharbor.
One thing that struck him as odd was the scarcity of meadows in Wine Medo. The wine lay in plentiful supply, but Mr. Grey had yet to see one acre of agriculture. The land itself seemed in conflict with flatness. Every direction boasted roilsome mounds and wild brush. Mr. Grey wondered where the food came from.
The sun plunged deeper and deeper towards the horizon. The western horizon, Mr. Grey noted carefully. Which meant it was still a workday; the eastern horizon only got custody of the sun on eon-end days. Mr. Grey checked his ticker anyway. The merrily tocking hands confirmed the sun was, indeed, setting.
A few shiny rays remained when Mr. Grey reached a second fork, and a second signpost. This one shared the crooked pole and barky board of the former, but the message on its warty surface took less paint:
‘The First Puzzle Post.’
This, of course, wasn’t helpful.
He pondered a bit on whether or not any logic lay in the message. With the sun slipping swiftly down the sky, he chose to stick to his planned method. Mr. Grey set his foot once more on the leftmost path. He took a step that way, but stopped on seeing motion at the sign’s base.
Mr. Grey watched a weasel-like thing emerge from the bulb-tipped vines and sinewy weeds flourishing around the post. It wore an unusual style of robe; a short cut hem, with many folds supporting many tools. Most of the tools had a dangerously weaponish capability, Mr. Grey thought. Were he a city bouncer, he doubted the weasel would have shown itself.
Aside from these differences, the weasel-creature looked very much like the pipkin stoat Mr. Grey had seen working as a conductor on the dragon trams. And the stoat which had added coals to the fire during the bar fight. In fact, Mr. Grey thought the three might be cousins, or even triplets. Or perhaps they were all the sa… but no, he dismissed that absurdity.
These circumstances, and a few absent inhibitions, led Mr. Grey to say quite candidly, “Pardon me, but have we met?”
The stoat tucked a tiny set of shears into a fold of his robe. It glanced in passing at Mr. Grey and said, “Gonna wibble there all day?”
“I think I’ve taken a wrong turn.”
The stoat whipped a hand to his round, sawdust covered ear in a gesture of impatience. “Can’t build with them words fella.”
“I was hoping… Would you direct me to town?”
“Crack me, you’re a fuddled one. Just read the sign man.”
“I’m not sure what the sign means. But I forget my manners. My name’s Mr. Grey.”
The stoat bobbed his head up and down and mumbled Mr. Grey’s words with an odd cadence; just as the giant had earlier. Clearly they shared accent troubles, though Mr. Grey understood both with no difficulty. The stoat eventually thrust his leathery hand forward, and said, “The Mender of Signs,” by which he denominated himself. Mr. Grey stooped and stiffly shook the stoat’s paw. The creature withdrew it quickly. “No time to seesaw today. Work to finish up.”
The stoat moved past Mr. Grey, back up the dirt road he’d come from. Mr. Grey, thinking the way to avoid accent issues was to speak in shorter thoughts, tried to. “Could you give directions?”
The Mender of Signs looked crossly at him. “You got speakin’ burs… This your first or second post?”
“It says it’s the first. But I saw another sign. One about flowers.”
The stoat sign mender jabbed a furry thumb towards the right path. “Follow that way for the Third.”
He turned to leave again, but Mr. Grey had questions loaded. “Is this third one more helpful?”
“It’s required by Third Law.”
“Which is the Third law?” Mr. Grey had read through the visa thoroughly. He didn’t recall any of the third sections, or third subsection, of any third sub-topics, in any of his visa’s terms and conditions, bearing any relevance to this scenario.
“The law of third encounters. Obviously man.”
Mr. Grey scratched his head, though he’d long gotten rid of the chicktail atom. He’d meant to express only brief thoughts. But the setting sun and impatience of the stoat made Mr. Grey hasty. In a flurry of monotone words that - in Mr. Grey’s head at least - showed rising panic, Mr. Grey said, “Please, I need some help. I’m terribly lost out here. I’m soaking with wine. The sun’s getting low. My luggage got thrown away; I don’t know where-to. And my friend’s missing. I want to reach the city, and sort all this out…”
The stoat easily understood all of this. He stamped a furry foot, annoyed at being detained. Then his wrinkled brow suddenly smoothed. He scratched his coarse-haired chin with a considerate look. After a moment he held out a paw, footpads-up.
Mr. Grey misunderstood. He went for another handshake, awkwardly askew. The stoat smacked his hand aside. “Treasure, you crooked tourist! I need a new wrench,” The tiny, furry sign mender plucked a stoat-sized adjustable wrench from the folds of his robe, and pointed out some chipping on its jaw.
“Oh, of course,” said Mr. Grey. The stoat didn’t understand those words. He did, however, understand when Mr. Grey pulled out his treasure, shook several shiny pebbles from it, and placed them in the open paw. Mr. Grey, for his part, considered this an ordinary road tax. It hardly scraped the surface of his total vacation fund.
The stoat took the pebbles. It had to set its own, much-smaller treasure purse on the ground and stamp the pebbles in to shut the clasp. It turned to Mr. Grey. “You’ll want the capital then. That’s where your stuff is.”
“And which road leads there?”
“Any road, of course.”
“I don’t understand.”
“This road’s got infinite forks. Lots of work to do…”
“Then how will I ever reach the capital?”
The stoat struggled with Mr. Grey’s accent. “...I said; The Third Law. Go right and you’ll reach a gate. That’ll be your third. The town’s just past that.”
“This all seems a tad foolish.”
“You get used to it.”
Mr. Grey glanced at the sun. It slipped remorselessly lower.
When he turned back, The Mender of Signs had bolted, running back the way Mr. Grey had come. Mr. Grey felt it fruitless to waylay further. He believed when the stoat complained of busy work. A road with endless forks probably had endless signs to mend.
Mr. Grey followed the stoat’s advice - he set off down the right path. “The sun’s rim dips; The stars rush out;” he thought, while watching the last winking daylight.
This time, however, the dirt road unrolled beneath his grey shoes for a short span. Day remained in the sky when Mr. Grey saw lesser lights dotting the distance. Small squares of gold marked the windows and doorways of houses. He still saw no lead up of rural farms. He wondered if the inhabitants fished the wine lakes for food.
Before another moment had passed - before the sun set - another turn round another hill revealed an arch overshadowing the road. The sideways light of day cast long, busy shadows moving beneath the arch. Mr. Grey prepared for conversation. The imminent dark left him almost glad for strangers’ society.
This has been In Different Color, a fairy tale.
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