Chapter 15 - Windmill
“A feast, a great feast! Six cheers for the mouse that left. And then six more cheers; the dragon returned!”
Pygmy-Footed-Snake’s words tinkled in the polished glassware, sitting on a frilled silken tablecloth, over a long wicker table, in the castle’s airy wooden dining hall. Tom caught the words at his seat down the table from Lord Snake. He cheered readily.
A servant standing by the kitchen sliding doors opened them to give the feast order. Before he could, the old castle doctor seated at Lord Snake’s side said, “There have been ample revels, be content with those. Now rest is needed.”
Mr. Grey - last of the four at the unnecessarily set table - spoke up between Lord Snake and Tom. “There’s no need for it.” He patted the violin coffin at his side. “I needed some direction, a few simple tips. No dramatic change; no observances needed.”
The lord grumbled and glared with his one eye at the doctor. He did, however, sag deeper in his moon-seat. “Well then, no feasting. We will have breakfast at least.”
This was agreed to by all, enthusiastically by Tom. The servant left to arrange the meal. The tall leather door shut with a hollow snap.
“Now then, when is this contest?” asked Lord Snake. He pulled his comforter cozily up to his spiderhair goatee.
“In a few days’ time,” answered Mr. Grey.
“I’ll be glad to watch. Toscamo will have strange looks. Epochs since I went.”
“Epochs longer too,” grumbled the doctor. “Too much of your sleep was lost. You must stay and rest.”
“I feel perfectly awake,” said Lord Snake. Of course he yawned after this statement; it being King’s Law to yawn after declaring a state of wakefulness. After a moment of pointed staring by the doctor, Lord Snake added, “Oh fine, you are right. I could use some naps.”
“I’ll still come with you,” said Tom. “I’m feeling recovered now.” Tom didn’t yawn; his statement was indirect enough that the law let it slide. Plus, he’d only been cursed with joy for a few moments of one night.
“I appreciate it Tom,” said Mr. Grey. Tom looked up at the ceiling strewn with cobwebs. Mr. Grey turned to his violin coffin. He fiddled absentmindedly with the latch.
“I am excited,” added Mr. Grey after a moment. “I’d like redemption; to make up for last concert.”
“Give us a sample,” suggested Tom, still with the meditative upward stare.
“I wouldn’t impose.” Mr. Grey took his hand from the coffin clasp. “Not on a peaceful breakfast.”
“You’ll have to play soon enough.”
Mr. Grey quietly pushed his seat back and stood. He walked to a nearby window, opened it with a wooden rasp, and let the morning light dance through the room’s dust particles. He looked out across the tranquil courtyard; at the parapets topped in flowers; at the mill turning lazily in a breeze of The Wind.
Lord Snake said, “This morning therefore, let us enjoy ourselves well.” He looked from the doctor, to Tom, to Mr. Grey by the window, with an inviting expression. He yelled toward the door. “Where is that breakfast?”
Tom smiled at Lord Snake. “You have a good cook. I’ve never eaten so well, or slept so deeply.”
“And you say we met before?”
Tom turned his eyes back to the ceiling. “Long ago I think.”
“I don’t recognize your face.”
“It has been ages. It’s likely you forgot me.”
“I never forget a face…”
“My whiskers are longer now.”
While Tom and Lord Snake debated their acquaintance behind him, Mr. Grey watched the windmill. The breeze turned the huge blades slowly, without a care. Mr. Grey’s thought idly on the upcoming concert. He wondered, how would his enchantments compare to those of real masters? The ones who had spent epochs with bow and string? Doubt snuck to the fore of his mind. He pushed it back with pleasanter thoughts. Just as the boot Ogur had taught.
“I know people from their voice, not by robe or shape,” Mr. Grey heard Lord Snake argue.
Tom replied, “Ahhh, but mine’s coarser these days. Too much wine fondness.”
“I still think it strange. You are the first I forgot.” The lord shifted beneath the comforter. “But let us move on. I promised treasure.”
Lord Snake clapped his hands twice, muffled beneath his quilt. The chamber door slid open instantly despite the sound’s softness. Two servants hustled in. Between them they carried a Treasure Chest™. The servants dropped it on the reed floor with a heavy thud and lifted the Eversafe lid. Inside was an enormous pile of feathers, calcified bugs, spice-jars, bookmarks, novelty spoons, cat bones, tie clasps, and old holiday cards; a hoard of treasure.
“That should be the right amount. For a concert fee.”
“And to buy tickets,” said Tom with a note of awe. “For the Glory Days passage. And loads of candy!”
“I do not think so,” replied Lord Snake. “The concert will exhaust it. Entry is pricey.”
“As are the tickets,” added Mr. Grey from the window. “A Treasure Chest™ wouldn’t pay.”
Tom asked, “What’s wrong with tickets? Or the concert entry fee? Why so expensive?” Mr. Grey knew Tom had no grasp of the king’s economy. He’d seen it in Tom’s haggling with the pawnbroker over the bandit’s whip.
“Scalpers raise prices,” explained Mr. Grey.
Lord Snake threw the comforter aside. He had a wiry body, over which he wore a silken, many-folded robe, quilted in the exact same pattern as the comforter. He said, “At present in any case, let us think of food. Where is the breakfast!”
A courtier threw the servant’s door open and rushed in. She carried no food. She apologized to the lord, but said she carried news of urgency.
Bandits were seen on shore, near Mr. Grey and Tom’s boat.
When the courtier finished speaking, Lord Snake said, “I shall send soldiers at once.”
“We have few ready just now,” said the old doctor dryly. “They are still sleepy.”
“I’ll chase them away,” said Tom. He jumped and grabbed for his mallet. The sudden rise left him reeling. Instead of hefting the mallet and marching through the door, he sank back into the crest of his chair.
Many tocks passed. Lord snake rubbed his cheek awkwardly. “My deepest regrets. Rare to see bandits; here on Pygmy-Footed land.”
“We may know these ones,” said Mr. Grey. He kept his eyes on the windmill, but his thoughts were of Gourd and his beard.
“We will clear them after sleep. But your performance… You’ll have to miss it. You may keep the treasure gift.”
Tom thumped a fist on the table. The polished glassware chimed.
Mr. Grey turned from the window view. He said, “I do have one idea.”
Mothy dust motes drifted through the scanty light inside the windmill. Some sank across blades of cold radiance slashing through cracks between the leather walls and wooden frame. Some buzzed by the warmer globe cast by a lonely candle; a candle burning with a flame so still that, if not for the fluttering dust, it might have been painted. Most of the dust simply sank. It dropped slowly, languidly, tiredly from wood-plank stairs and wood-beam scaffolds. It landed delicately and finally on the placid faces of sleeping soldiers.
Mr. Grey listened to the snoring troop. He listened to the turning windmill blades far above, creaking in unseen motion, like the rocking chair of a jilted old spinster long after she’s ceased existing. He sniffed - with protection - at the dusty floral air. He sneezed into his elbow.
“Would you be quiet?” The castle doctor spoke with hushed anger. “Why do you prevent their sleep, every chance you get?”
“Soften down, you old sawbones,” said Lord Snake mildly. He sat on a pile of threshold devices, beneath his comforter. He cast his one sleepy eye across the floor thick with dust and snoring soldiers. “He did not force us.”
“No, this was your choice.”
“You said ‘no walking’. Not in our weak condition. We are not walking.”
“What I said was, ‘no travel’. This is not resting.”
Mr. Grey sneezed again. The painted candle light flickered. Lord snake and the doctor looked at him. “My apologies,” said Mr. Grey in a whisper. “What’s this mill used in grinding? Not chicktails I hope.”
“This one is a flower mill,” said Lord Snake.
Mr. Grey looked over the flower-dust-coated soldiers. They slept on makeshift bedrolls in a tic-tac scatter across the reedy windmill floor. Against the doctor’s wishes Lord Snake had asked which of them wanted to visit Toscamo. He’d explained how Mr. Grey’s plan meant that they could travel without weary days crossing roads and lakes. Many soldiers - an uncomfortable number Mr. Grey thought - signed up to see his concert. Now they lay around the rolling millstone. The soldiers looked like so many small bundles of product; as though the heavy stone crushed people who wore too much perfume, instead of flowers.
The door to the mill opened to let in a larger rectangle of daylight. A servant slipped in and quietly closed the door. He tiptoed his way through the sleepers and moved before the wakeful ones: Mr. Grey, Lord Snake, the doctor, and Tom.
“Excuse me my lord,” began the servant in a voice barely audible above the snoring. “The foundation has been loosed, as you requested.”
Lord Snake turned his sleepy eye on Mr. Grey. “This is all your show. Are we ready to depart?”
“Let them go alone,” said the doctor. “This shall be no gentle trip.”
“Can we take off now?” asked Lord Snake, pointedly facing Mr. Grey. The servant slipped quietly from the mill after a dismissive wave from the lord.
Mr. Grey said, “We’re waiting on The Wind now. I believe she’s near.”
Tom said he’d check the top. He pumped his legs and mounted the stairs. More dust floated from the old wooden boards as they creaked beneath his heavy, lumbering feet. Mr. Grey, Lord Snake, and the castle doctor watched the candle flame. It burned stone-still. The wax ran in laminar smoothness.
Tom reached halfway up the creaky steps. Suddenly the dust floating in the blades of daylight danced with new vigor. The glow on the sleeping faces shifted as the candle flickered.
“Good day to you, Wind,” said Mr. Grey as she slipped through the wall cracks. Tom started back down.
“Playing around in old mills?” The Wind asked with an airy laugh. “That seems so childish. Aren’t these warriors? I wouldn’t expect them here. Or you, Mr. Grey.”
Lord Snake said, “This is my castle. My soldiers play where they like.” The doctor shushed the loudly-talking lord.
Mr. Grey added, “We had a design, a small idea we hatched. We thought you might help. Any chance you’re bored, looking for occupation?”
“I might be interested. Depends on the plot.”
“You remember the folkpole?”
“It was only days ago.”
“And the flowers you made fly?”
“My favorite kind. Ah, windmill-dandelions! They soar through the air.”
“We thought you might do that here, with the flower mill. Lift it and fly it,” The floor creaked beneath Mr. Grey, who shifted nervously on his feet.
Tom rejoined them at the base of the steps. He swiped sweat with his handkerchief, adding dust to the cloth. He said, “We need to reach Toscamo. To cross the wide lake, and the broad country. Can you fly us over there?”
“I thought the structure felt loose,” The Wind mused. The candle flickered, then fell still.
After a pause Mr. grey prodded her. “So, do you think you can help?”
The Wind fluttered inarticulately through the room for a moment. She danced over the sleepers and whirled the dust. Finally she said, “I don’t see why not. Sounds like a merry affair.”
Mr. Grey was surprised at her ready agreement. Suddenly the candle guttered out, leaving a thin trail of smoke drifting up through the dust. The Wind ran helter-skelter through the wall cracks. Some of the sleepers shifted.
“She had better be gentle,” muttered the doctor.
“Yes Wind, please do go gently,” added Mr. Grey.
The Wind went; not gently.
Vast herds of cashmere clouds ambled across a field of hyacinth sky. No Wind nipped doggedly at the clouds’ tails. No Wind sheared them into storm words. No Wind drove them into lakes and forced them to guzzle wine, only later to spew it back as shivering rain. No Wind; and happy clouds. They wandered over a land in bloom. The shadows they dropped over field, forest, and stream were thin, almost invisible. Those idle shadows only added character to the light of an equally idle sun. Those gentle shadows, and the plants and beasts they mingled with, and the slow-moving clouds above, enjoyed a day of peace.
Then, on one patch of forest below, a shadow thickened. The spot of shade was small, and shaped like a dragonfly. It moved fast over the terrain. It grew. It darkened. It passed out of the forest, onto a wide lake of wine. It grew broader as it plunged a flock of Sourbeak Hoppers into darkness. The puzzled birds pointed their twisted beaks and beady eyes at the sky.
The dragonfly-shaped shadow came from a dragonfly-shaped object. It lurked behind the clouds, between the herds and the bright sun. The clouds noticed the shape. Through them passed a ripple. Through the herd a seam split. The clouds bolted before the predator.
The shape swooped through the woolen sheet’s new hole. Not a dragonfly, not even close.
The castle windmill.
The windmill dropped from the iris sky through the fleeing fleece. It body-slammed toward the wine lake. It soared in a sudden turn. It straightened. It glided heavily through the sky. The wooden blades whirled around the axle, the blustery Wind spinning them madly as she flung the windmill through the air. She carried it over the lake as she’d carried her dandelions over the folkpole. But faster, and with creaking.
Inside the straining wood and leather body, the millstone whirred like a dragon engine. Sparks burned leopard spots on every surface. The sleepy soldiers pulled their blankets grouchily overhead. Both to cover their ears against the noise, and to shelter their faces from the burning motes.
Mr. Grey and Tom stood on the dust-floor at the top of the steps. They peered through a diamond-shaped window. Just an arms-length beyond, the windmill fan whirred. It threw heavy air against their faces. Behind him, Mr. Grey’s anchor shawl stuck out in a vibrating line. Through the propeller’s shuttering view, Mr. Grey and Tom looked over the wide expanse of wine.
“We’re making good time,” said Mr. Grey. He shouted over the grinding stone, whirring blades, and snapping leather. “We should be in town by dark.”
Tom leaned on his mallet and yawned into his flapping handkerchief. “If The Wind stays with us, yes.”
From the bottom floor a soldier called, “Can you turn the fan down some?”
Another added a loud mumble. “That party was a bender. Let us get some sleep.”
Mr. Grey edged his face close to the window. The spinning blades added vibrato to his voice. “Wind, we’re grateful for all this. You’re helping us out. Just one quick notice; we’ve got some sleepers in here. Think you could ease up?”
The gusting ceased. The blades slowed. The mill dropped suddenly towards the wine. Mr. Grey, Tom, and the people on the floor below float suddenly, weightlessly, with the mothy dust.
With equal abruptness the Wind blasted once more. The blades rattled into motion. The mill skimmed the wine’s surface, then soared back among the bolting clouds.
“What was that you said?” asked The Wind, billowing sarcastically. “Hard to hear and fly at once.”
Mr. Grey’s voice purred in the blades. “Nothing, carry on.”
Mr. Grey groped along a banister to the other side of the dust-floor. He peered through one of the cracks between wood and leather. The island shrank behind them. Mr. Grey saw tiny figures moving along the thin line of the shore, near where they’d left the boat. One form looked especially round and beardy. Mr. Grey pictured the look of foiled awe on Gourd’s face as he followed the mill’s flight.
Through the wall crack Mr. Grey had a lovely view of those shrinking figures moving along the shore. The crack failed, however, to warn him of the winged shapes following in the windmill’s shadow. Mr. Grey knew nothing of the shapes - flocking to the airborne structure like barn cats to the morning slop - until they fell upon the soaring mill.
An avian cloud swarmed suddenly at the mill’s leather walls and churning propeller. Mr. Grey twitched his eyes to the diamond window. Tom stuffed his kerchief into a pocket and lifted his mallet from the floor. Outside, a flock of Sourbeak Hoppers dove and squawked in the air. They kept pace easily with the heavy mill. They ripped at it with their crooked beaks. One slipped past the blurred blades and poked through the window. Tom smacked it back with a fist and slammed the window shut with a snap. The Wind’s wail faded, though she still gusted through the wall cracks.
“Are we over their nest grounds?” asked Mr. Grey. He groped along the banister to stand by Tom.
“That must be the case. We’ll just keep the window shut. They’ll go away soon.” Tom leaned heavily on the mallet. He looked away through a wall crack. Mr. Grey saw the dark bags under Tom’s eyes, still avoiding his own. He wanted Tom to rest, but he wasn’t sure they could simply weather the feathered siege.
In the stretched walls all around him, twisted beaks punctured through and left jagged rents. Pale daylight rushed through the cuts and shone on the mill’s intestines. From the floor of cranky soldiers below a groggy voice shouted, “Will someone put that light out?” Outside, Mr. Grey heard a frequent, repeated two-tone sequence; a flat whack followed by a pained squawk. The Sourbeaks flew repeatedly at the blades and were summarily homerunned. But through the stringy new rips, Mr. Grey saw the impacts damaged the blades as much as the birds. The shuttering propeller now spun with an off-kilter wobble. Even in the flickering image, Mr. Grey noticed cracks forming.
Under this continuous assault of sour beaks and one-legged talons, the mill started to sink. Mr. Grey grabbed the nearest scaffold as the dust floor lurched. The Wind threw herself into the propeller with typhoon vigor. The millstone screamed beneath them, the soldiers raised a group wail. The Wind’s renewed effort kept the mill aloft, but Mr. Grey heard her cry from outside, “You’re turning quickly flightless! You’ll be in the drink, unless these pests leave.”
Mr. Grey looked worriedly through the cracks and the disintegrating propeller. In the distance he saw the verdant edge of Wine Medo’s mainland. A long span of wine lay between them and that edge. Fermented waves rose and crashed in huge crests under The Wind’s furious blowing. The Sourbeaks only grew angrier at the bashing of Wind and blades. They slashed the thin mill walls to hangnail ribbons. Mr. Grey didn’t think they’d reach land.
He looked around the fast-lightening windmill interior. He tried to think over the clamor of blowing Wind and tearing beaks. The soldiers and Lord Snake only went on complaining; they remained wrapped in their blankets. They’d be of no help. Mr. Grey glanced at his warrior-friend, but Tom had dropped into a deep sleep. He snored heavily over the hubbub. The heavy wooden mallet lay abandoned on the scaffold beside him, like a tapped keg with a long spigot.
Mr. Grey’s confidence plumbed an astonishing new depth as he wrapped his dry hands around the mallet’s handle. He heaved the weapon. The barrel-head rose off the scaffold just a hair, then thudded back. Mr. Grey thought he could lift it with maximum effort. Maybe even swing, in an uncontrolled way. With no other plan appearing, Mr. Grey determined to open the window and bat at the birds nearest the propeller. It wasn’t a great plan, he knew it wasn’t. He had a better chance of hitting the blades than the birds. It was, however, the only plan in stock.
He hefted the mallet onto his shoulder. He threw the diamond window open. He looked outside. The Sourbeaks, seeing a wide new opening, flocked to Mr. Grey. Some whacked into the propeller, damaging it further. Others managed to flutter awkwardly around the blades. The birds closed. One squawked at Mr. Grey’s face of stone. He readied a swing.
But suddenly, the birds turned. They flew away from the Window, away from Mr. Grey. They flew from the mill altogether. Mr. Grey thought that they’d gotten beyond Sourbeak territory. The birds flew toward the mainland, however, not back the way they’d come.
Then Mr. Grey saw the truth. By then the mill had closed some of the distance to land. He now saw some of the mainland’s features, its hills and polka-dot ponds. Dancing in the cloud-words over the fields of chicktails and forests of poetrees, Mr. Grey saw a familiar butterfly-kite. When he looked to the grass below he saw children, very like the ones he’d seen in the park at Starharbor. The children drew the Sourbeaks off with their kite. Mr. Grey saw the tiny flick of their arms as they waved up at the flying mill. Mr. Grey waved back. He sighed and let the mallet fall.
The Wind gushed freely through the tattered walls. She pushed with all her force against the blades. They sank towards wine regardless. Mr. Grey saw, however, the sandy mainland shore edging closer. He called out, “Do keep it up Wind. We’re almost to the mainland.”
They sank lower. Mr. Grey heard the crashing waves.
And lower. Mr. Grey tasted the tannic spray.
And they slipped, gently, into wet, wavy sand.