Chapter 17 - Vessel
Mr. Grey gawped at the daisy-clean face of his ticker. Its slim metal arms tocked in happy, uniform fractions behind invisibly translucent glass. His fingers held the device by its pendant in a tender, firm pinch. On its back, the mirror-polished casing captured the perfect miniature of a wine sea.
“You’re obsessive.”
Honeydew’s blunt words beat Mr. Grey back to his senses. He looked up. Honeydew stood with her back to the docks and the sea, looking at him with an exasperated, half-amused expression.
“I was just checking the time,” said Mr. Grey. He put the ticker away.
“Sure.”
“The tides are supposed to be good soon, you know.”
“If you say so,” Honeydew turned to watch the waxing wine. Her wry look remained.
“It’s indispensable. Once more I’m tracking everything’s length. Keeping time. I can’t thank you enough.”
“It was only small trouble.”
“Not just for my ticker. If not for you, Glory Days would be unreachable. I’m glad, you know, about this holiday. That you agreed to accompany me, I mean.”
“There better be more than candy and leather homes where we’re going.” Honeydew yawned showily in the direction of Toscamo.
“It’s a shame you weren’t with us at Lord Snake’s castle. There was a sight. Old wood frame; old leather walls; nestled in the poetree woods; snowy mountain tusks in the distance…”
“Sounds like the rest of Toscamo. So rustic. Palaces of marble, iron bridges crossing mile-wide rivers, masquerade balls in crystal ballrooms; those are the things I want to see.”
“I’m sure we will, in a moat called ‘Glory Days’. It’ll be fun seeing those sights together.”
Honeydew clicked. Mr. Grey couldn’t tell what the sound meant.
They stood silently together. Mr. Grey stared over the sea. The body of wine moved choppily, vastly distinct from the lakes and streams and ponds. It went on forever, and disappeared when it touched the sky. He heard the close, remorseless, rhythmic press of the waxing tides as they chewed the mossy wooden posts and mossy stone breakers of the wharf.
Mr. Grey watched their anticipated vessel turn slow, sideways somersaults in the swaying wine. Shaped like an amphora runneth over, the ship’s surface was covered, bow to stern, in glass pictographs. Mr. Grey had no thought of the pictures’ meanings. Icons of farmers, fields, and factories; icons of feathered, furred, and scaled beasts; icons of horns, and icons of spoons, and icons of guns. The picture windows rotated slowly up from the sea on one side of the amphora ship, and slipped beneath the waves on the opposite. From Mr. Grey’s position, he seemed to be watching the turning of a zoetrope. Each ring of the amphora’s circling pictographs unfolded its own story.
The stories stopped. The amphora ceased its spin, though the tides still undulated. A curving hairline appeared on its surface, around a glass pictograph of a doorknob. Presently an arched door folded out from the vessel, forming a bridge with the dock. A figure stepped from within. It wore a traditionally-long, ink-bleached robe, and leaned on a wooden crook. It turned a snowy face over the waiting passengers, but said nothing.
“What’s that person’s job?” asked Tom from behind. He’d come up with unexpected stealth.
“I would say he’s the boatman,” said Honeydew with a friendly, sarcastic click.
“I think he has a title,” added Mr. Grey. “‘Captain’ I believe. A prestigious one.”
Honeydew asked, “How can you tell?”
“He has an eyepatch. King’s Law stipulates dress codes. All captains need one.”
“I meant, how can you tell he’s prestigious?”
“Because he has two.”
This captain wore both eyepatches low on his face, over his cheekbones, so as not to impair his sight. After a slow roll of his eyes over the passengers waiting at the wharf, he said, “Tide’ll be in soon.” He spoke in low and wispy words — somehow they reached all ears. The captain then retreated into the amphora. The arch-door closed with a hiss, and the glass icons resumed their slow turning.
“I hope you know Tom,” began Mr. Grey once the crowd’s gossip resumed, “that you’re not compelled to come. You’re welcome, of course…”
Mr. Grey stopped speaking and set his mouth in a level line. He feared he’d given the wrong impression, that Tom would think Mr. Grey wanted him gone. In reality Mr. Grey found Tom a useful acquaintance in his ability as a guardian. Also, Tom was a good person, and a kind friend. Mr. Grey regretted that their friendship’s reality never seemed to come off properly in words.
Honeydew - in a grumble - spoke before Tom. “His ticket’s been bought.”
Tom nodded. “My ticket’s been bought,” he said. He brought out his handkerchief, wiped his face, then held the cloth to Mr. Grey. Mr. Grey tried refusing, but Tom took his grey hand and pressed the cloth into it. “See how dry my kerchief is? I’m fit for travel.”
Mr. Grey said, “That wasn’t my concern, Tom. I don’t have concerns. I’m glad you’ll…”
Tom suddenly snatched back his handkerchief. He turned and started away at a half-sprint, lumbering down the wharf. Pedestrians parted to give him a wide channel. Tom called back, “Saw a friendly face, have to say farewell to it! Return in no time.”
Honeydew said, “I saw that bandit who robbed me earlier. Big-Gourd or whatever.” She squinted after Tom. “I wonder who won their fight.”
“I expect Tom won,” said Mr. Grey.
“Maybe…”
Mr. Grey let one tide crash and a few tocks pass. He said, “Honeydew, do you think - if the circumstances permit it - we’ll have more chances to sightsee? As a pair? Once we reach Glory Days? We just seemed mostly separate in Wine Medo.”
She clicked. Consolingly, Mr. Grey thought. “We did your concert together. I saw you play. Good ‘violining’, even though you lost.”
A quiet, directionless voice added, “Ain’t any loss here. You ‘violined’ to your best. Your best was crystal!”
The words echoed; not fading, but growing louder at each repetition. Other pedestrians glanced in Mr. Grey’s direction and covered their ears.
Mr. Grey turned. Nesting-Inside-Pots was walking blindly towards him, arms outstretched. Mr. Grey held an arm out straight. When Pots found his arm - like the sailor of a wrecked ship with a floating board - she clutched it tight.
Pots went on. “I liked your piece best. Like hearing a younger me. I wept tears of joy.”
Mr. Grey rubbed his neck with the free hand. “You exaggerate. Wasn’t my enchantment lost? Since you can’t see it?”
Mr. Grey turned, somehow, stiffer. He’d spoken with unintentional cruelty. Pots felt the tension in his arm. She only laughed - quietly, then gradually louder - and said, “Sounded grand to me. I don’t miss the distraction; the music’s the lead.”
“Thank you for that, Pots. I hope I’ll do it again. Grand treasures are rare.”
“My Oh Well’s empty, and I gotta get back soon. But before I go-” Pots squeezed his arm and turned her eyeless face up to his. “A word of advice. Don’t ever play for no one. Music’s played to share.”
Mr. Grey found this advice confusing, especially because it blasted in his ears as it echoed. But he trusted Pots, and told her he’d only play for others.
Mr. Grey then asked, “Any more guidance; about travel or manners? About Glory Days?”
“You’ll figure it out. Now stand tall and spread those hands. We’ll swap goodbye hugs.”
Pots let go of Mr. Grey and stepped back. She held her arms wide. Her loudening words attracted the attention of the nearest strangers. They side eyed the parting pair with rubbernecking mirth. Honeydew watched in respectful silence, hiding her own smirk behind a sunflower-eye sleeve. The old well dweller - with her cathair robe, and wide arms, and wider ears - was a spectacle. A sight worth smiling at; the statuary man leaning down, hugging tight his absurd old teacher.
Mr. Grey and pots parted. The fiddle witch shuffled blindly into the crowd. She called farewells to Mr. Grey and Honeydew, and told them to give her goodbyes to Tom.
When Pots had gone, Honeydew said, “She’s alright. A bit batty.”
Mr. Grey checked his ticker and tightened his shawl.
The amphora stopped again a moment later. The door seam opened in its side. Out stepped the double-eyepatched captain. He looked to the winey sea. The waves lapped high against the mossy dock posts, nearly touching the vessel’s ceramic gangplank. He cried, “Ready to depart,” in his whisper-voice. He stepped back inside. He left the door open. Passengers began filtering toward the ship.
Mr. Grey looked for Tom. Honeydew tugged at the sleeve of his robe and pulled him toward the boat. “Don’t you think we should find Tom?” he asked, scanning the faces in the throng.
“No point in all of us missing the trip,” said Honeydew. She led him by the robe with a firm step.
Mr. Grey’s eyes flicked from face to face, searching for the heavy, whiskered one. Two faces did stand out. They were familiar somehow; one with oily sideburns, and one with sharp, wiry mutton-chops. But though these faces had whiskers and looked familiar, they wore dark spectacles, and were more sleek than round. Neither face was familiar in the way of Tom’s. Honeydew pulled Mr. Grey’s sleeve, dragging him onto the dock. Mr. Grey gave up the search. He felt sad. Tom must’ve been detained. Tom wouldn’t be coming…
Then a heavy foot rattled the boards of the dock, and Tom stood beside Mr. Grey. He drew air in quick huffs and puffs.
“Sorry about that,” he said between breaths. “Wanted my mallet blunted. Before we send off.”
Honeydew clicked snappishly. The dock creaked disjointed notes as she dragged them over its boards.
Mr. Grey, Tom, and Honeydew followed on the frilled hem of the passenger ahead in line. They stepped aboard the amphora’s gangplank. The flow of boarders made a continuous ceramic drumming as it entered the musty container, varied by the foot of the boarder. When Honeydew crossed, the gangplank sounded with light, impatient tapping, like a finger on a window. Mr. Grey’s passage tinkled like the setting-out of fine glassware in a grand, sterile dining hall. And each step of Toms boomed like the setting-down of a toilet tank lid.
Once inside, Honeydew, Mr. Grey, and Tom had their tickets checked by the tall, hunching captain. He loomed over each in turn. His eyepatch flaps dangled like dark bags beneath his eyes as he studied each ticket’s descriptive scrawl. He eventually swept his arm for each, ushering them deeper into the amphora.
The vessel’s round, earthenware tunnels hummed with mausoleum silence. Light visited the space, but made its excuses shortly after entering, and departed fast. It crept in through the pictograph windows - stealing luster from the gemstone glass - gathered like rose petal dust on the walls, made bloody shadows in the corners, then scattered to nothing.
Other than the air’s closeness and a sense of decorum, no sign forbid speech. The daring voices of other passengers occasionally reached the three in pad footed echoes. Tom challenged the sober space. He said, “Wine Medo’s behind you now. Maybe forever; none can see that far. Starharbor or Wine Medo, which do you like more?”
“I can see appeal in both,” said Mr. Grey. “I’m in the middle, I guess you could say.”
“Starharbor’s better,” said Honeydew. Her cuff brushed against the rough ceramic wall and grabbed a streak of dust. She patted it violently clean. “Better robes here, I’ll grant you. But there’s no places! Nothing with grandeur, nothing all that beautiful.”
Tom offered Honeydew his handkerchief. She took it and wiped at the dust on her sleeve. He said, “A shame you missed the flowers. Something’s been missing, since Jodee Coats came.”
“Flowers are okay.” She handed Tom back his handkerchief. “But food’s needed more. Who cares about smelling nice, if your stomach growls?”
“That I understand. But the land always provides. Candy can be found.”
“Well beans taste better besides.”
They both looked to Mr. Grey, expecting a tiebreaker. “Not for me to say,” he said, and continued down the hall. Neither Tom nor Honeydew looked satisfied. Mr. Grey went on, “It’s what the visas are for, and the Odormoats, I would imagine. I can’t say it’s right or wrong; Jodee’s influence, or if it should stop. There are too many factors: the odor attacks, the flower gardens, the demand for ready food. I just do visas; see that they’re filled out. Miss Coats didn’t finish hers. She skipped protocol; traveled the wrong way. I just want to put it right. That’s my only wish.”
The stifling atmosphere had let Mr. Grey speak at length. At the word ‘wish’, however, the padded echoes took up his speech. The word went away in the softening way of the halls, “Wish…Wish…wish… ish… sh.” The halls seemed to shush the unsightly noise. The three said no more.
They found the cozy, earthy amphora cabin where Honeydew’s and Mr. Grey’s luggage was stored. Floor cushions lay in the corners. The wall opposite the door curved with the outer hull of the amphora. The glass hieroglyph set in the wall let wine-stained light spill over the floor, in the shape of a locust.
Tom, Honeydew, and Mr. Grey sat quietly in the cushions, and waited for the amphora to sail.
Slowly, gently, the amphora churns the burgundy surface. Its passengers do not tumble as it rolls. Nor are there seatbelts to buckle. The amphora brims with gravity. Its passengers recline lazily in their cushions. They watch, through pictographic windows, the passage of the vessel through the wine. Their rooms slip between light and dark; the windows slip in and out of the fermented sea. The amphora hums like a monastery. Its passengers droop their heads and lower their lids. The ceramic chant and the sloshing waves dull their senses.
The amphora stops, still near the docks.
The sea vibrates. Wine splashes on the surface in tiny, glittering spires. Beneath the amphora, something unseen. Something colossal.
One grey passenger asks; is there possibly some issue?
The vibration stops.
The sea behind the amphora rips, an explosive crash of waves. A sea monster, a Mogul Koi, punches the top of its head into the air. It’s eyes - its translucent eyes - are wider than the sun when he watched the world close. Wider than the sterile ivory balls of the marble train, and almost as lacking in soul. The wine crashes from its scales - translucent scales - in waterfalls. Through the crystal armor, the organs of the koi work their individual industries. The see-through heart pumps see-through blood through see-through veins. The stomach wall lets sight pass to-and-from its immense cavernous hold, where crude oil sloshes. The upper jaw of the monster and its house-sized, square teeth - translucent teeth - arc over the amphora. The colossal fish swallows the amphora whole. The ship slips down the invisible gullet-walls, and slides into the slimy dark of the stomach acid.
And, as quickly as it comes, the Mogul-Koi punches back into the sea.
Diving with a will, the Koi beast corkscrews. Spinning. Circling. Deeper. Deeper. The amphora sloshes in its belly. The passengers tumble from their cushioned rests. Through hieroglyph windows and a glass stomach wall, they see the organs toil. The gills shiver like great sheets of crystal in a moody Wind. A workhouse-heart rumbles with volcano-energy; liquid glass blood bubbles through its veins. The rooms swelter. The air grows heady. Beyond the window and the lung and the ice-flake scales; through the murky wine; thick forests of candy coral crash upward. Licorice-seaweed, gummy-elkhorn, malt-chocolate-branches; all give sudden way to clearcuts of rock and sand. The seafloor slips by. The stomach-ship humidifies. The passengers sweat and tumble. The Koi labors down.
Swimming with a rhythm, the Koi beast corkscrews. The dark wine shifts suddenly to water. Light shines from far below. It glints brightly on the flushed faces of the passengers. They tumble and roll through increasingly dense air. The Wind - last of the passengers - blows hot and sticky and hollow through the chambers. The passengers’ ears pop with each rumble of the leviathan heart. Their blood pushes heavily in time with the beast’s. Between each pulse, the constant bubble of the bladed gills, aerating the sea. The gills work the water. The passengers lungs work the thickening air. The Koi fish labors down.
Drilling through the deep, the koi-beast corkscrews. The air is syrup. The passengers flush with effort. Every pair of hands - even the driest - drips with salty sweat. Each pound of koi heart and whirr of koi gills pumps the hot-wet Wind through tunnels and chambers, steaming around the tumbling passengers. Each pop of their ears is a wave of nausea. A growing golden glow below pierces see-through scales and stomach and hieroglyph window. The glow fills the rooms with light, battles the darkening eyes. But the air is muting. The amphora toiling madly. The stomach oil rolling. The earthen walls jostling. Every set of senses is beaten. Hammered.
Remorselessly, the Mogul Koi labors and drives and drills and corkscrews. Deeper and deeper and deeper still. Into an unknown brightness. Its heart and gills work air into porridge, too thick to digest. Every set of eyes slips shut. Noses run with slow-moving blood. No set of eyes remains to see the huge domes on the bottom of the sea. The domes glow with light, like bubble wrap on an east-facing window at dawn. No eyes see the bigger fish - giant, lambent, loitering - casting daylight rays across the ocean deep. Every sense has been baked in the heat; battered against the tossing ship in a stomach lake of oil; compressed and extruded into unconsciousness by the dense air. The Koi fish labors down, unheeded.
Mr. Grey sinks, senselessly, inside the monster-koi.