Chapter 8 - Concerto
Mr. Grey sat stiff as ever - at odds with the curve of his half-moon chair - and scrutinized the hedgecherry trees. The petals quivered, but stuck to their limbs. He relaxed his hands on the edges of his seat. His eyes dropped from the petals, and settled on his lap, on his visa napkin from the Starharbor Embassy. “Travel to Glory Days isn’t prohibited,” he mused aloud. “I think we can follow her. Only, I’ve heard Glory Days boat tickets are expensive.”
Honeydew walked her eyes to the other attendees and performers in the airy park. They sat in other half-moon chairs, in the cool shadows of other hedgecherry trees. “That one over there.” She pointed at another performer. “With the gilded-brass fiddle. And the waxy skin. She’s doing something to the hair stick.”
“Ah yes. She’s applying rosin. I should do the same.” Mr. Grey grabbed his bow from the open coffin lying in the grass next to him among hedgecherry tree pits. He slid back and forth along the horsehairs with a small amber disk. He’d already done so half-a-dozen times since they’d arrived at the contest park and found their seats.
Overhead the hedgecherry branches rustled. But the tardy Wind had yet to arrive. Her forerunner zephyrs lacked the force to shake petals from their boughs.
The participants waited on The Wind to play.
“I believe the winner receives famous-last-words,” Mr. Grey went on while rosining. “And the runner-up; two old sets of spectacles. Second place alone is enough to book passage. And I’d be content with second. All things considered.”
Honeydew clicked. “Listen to that one. Over there, with the spoon-patterned headband. That’s fiddling!”
“He seems quite talented.”
“Quite…” Honeydew sounded anxious. “What’s your enchantment again?”
“It’s nothing special. Just a…”
“It better be special. Now listen to that one!” Honeydew poked toward another practicing player. This one wore a plain, smokey patterned robe, and plucked at the fiddle like a harp.
Honeydew said, “Tell me you brought the needed treasure.”
Mr. Grey nodded. He took the enchantment treasure - a bookmark - up from where it lay on his lap. He’d originally kept it in a pocket. But after withdrawing and checking it an inconceivable number of times - without Honeydew’s prompting - he’d simply set it where his eyes could easily go for reassurance.
“I think I stand a chance at second,” said Mr. Grey. “Pots is a superb teacher.”
“I’m surprised you lasted without cologne; around Tom and Pots all the time.”
“Did you see where Tom went anyway?”
Mr. Grey’s question received a prompt response. The wicker seat behind him let out a terror-stricken creak. It found its bowl pressed suddenly under the huge shape of Tom.
“Isn’t this regal?” Tom asked with a laugh. “Under the hedgecherry trees, with the ducks quacking? The fiddles sing out; we wait for The Wind to start; sweetsalt in plenty!” Tom’s fingers dived into a wooden bowl carved with horses. He pulled the fingers back with a lump of fine, ivory powder. Tom shoved this lump to his face. Most of it entered his mouth. He laughed again, through the powder, and held the bowl to Mr. Grey and Honeydew.
“A local special,” he went on. “The dust from a shooting star. You must try a pile.”
Honeydew declined. She drew her gilded pocket mirror from one of many folds on her new robe, and straightened a loose strand of golden hair. Mr. Grey said no, thank you. Tom shrugged. He gormandized the powder.
“Tom, will The Wind show up soon?” asked Honeydew, not looking from the mirror.
“She’s often tardy,” he answered. “But then, sometimes she’s early. The Wind is like mail.”
“The mail’s always late… Look, there’s our host, Snow!”
Honeydew slipped the hand mirror away and conducted their eyes with her pointed nose. They followed her look to a tall man, with a beard and hair like fog. He wore a downy robe of pale feathers, laying cold and motionless like marble on his skin. Even with the knee-high hem of the garment, his legs seemed to lift him, floating, above the grass. Like a ghost. He traded courtesies with guests in a keen tongue. He caressed the offered instruments of the performers in a cool hand. When another zephyr of The Wind passed - with the scent of rain, but not the strength to free the petals - the man pulled, from a fold in in the marble feathers, a parchment fan-of-office. He spread and waved it with lordly wrist flicks.
This fan’s face bore an image; four gumdrops on a field of snow.
The same symbol on the badge of the road bandit, Gourd.
Mr. Grey and Tom shared a glance.
“He seems so… regal,” said Honeydew. She clicked admiringly.
Another glance passed between Mr. Grey and Tom. Mr. Grey opened his mouth to speak when a familiar voice called out. “Goodness, what a coincidence! Is that Mr. Grey?”
Mr. Grey leaned out from the bowl of his chair and looked behind, as did his two friends, as did several faces beneath the other trees’ shadows. Mr. Grey’s eyes crossed their figurative arms. They watched and waited on the scurrying approach of Ms. Maysey. She rushed breathlessly but carefully across the pit-sprinkled grass. The mice of her hair looked at the other attendants whose attention she’d drawn. The mice gave short, reassuring squeaks to answer their prying eyes, as if to say, “nothing to be alarmed about, sir. No trouble here, miss.”
Ms. Maysey scurried into a fourth moon-seat next to Mr. Grey. She darted a hand into her enormously puffy robe, withdrew and struck a light at her pipe (she’d purchased a one-handed striker, sparing Mr. Grey’s hand another scorching as a pipe holder), and took several long, medicinal drags. The medical diagnosis on her job application instantly sprang to Mr. Grey’s mind: ‘Hopelessly neurotic and intractably hypochondriacal’.
Honeydew and Tom looked between Mr. Grey and Ms. Maysey. Mr. Grey tackled the burden of introductions. “Tom and Honeydew, this new guest is Ms. Maysey. A pencil pusher.” He turned to Ms. Maysey. “Ms. Maysey, hello. These are my travel partners, Tom and Honeydew. Honeydew’s my guest. Tom… is like our local guide. He’s a good fellow.”
Ms. Maysey nodded shyly at each of the two. She let the pipe smoke swell in her lungs. The little inky eyes of her hair mice turned bloodshot. Honeydew and Tom each said Hello. Ms. Maysey finally released a massive tobacco cloud. It lingered because of The Wind’s absence. Honeydew swatted the cloud, while Tom looked at Ms. Maysey without disturbance. Mr. Grey looked at Tom, worried. The big man wore no protective scents, and the smoke came with a pungent odor.
Mr. Grey let out one of those deliberate coughs which has nothing to do with clearing lungs, and everything to do with drawing attention. Ms. Maysey (still exhaling) looked at Mr. Grey, then at Honeydew, then at Tom. She stopped exhaling and sealed the remaining smoke in her lungs. Then she tried to apologize.
After many moments of coughing, apologizing, and gradual clearing-away of smoke, the four were perfectly set for strained dialogue. “Will you be a performer?” asked Honeydew, politely driving past Ms. Maysey’s continued apologies.
“Oh goodness me, no!” said Ms. Maysey. She pointed with her pipe’s gnawed tip at the violin beside the bookmark in Mr. Grey’s lap. “I’m surprised Mr. Grey will. I’m surprised you’re here,” she added to Mr. Grey with a squeaky laugh.
“It was Jack York’s suggestion,” answered Mr. Grey. “We came down by train. The trip’s been… something. An Odormoat of events.”
“But playing in a contest! I couldn’t do it.”
“Mine’s a smaller piece, just a simple enchantment. I’m not an expert.” Mr. Grey waved a hand, as though dismissing his part. Honeydew flicked her mirror open and sharpened the folds of her robe.
“Remember Pots’ lessons,” said Tom. “Let go of reserve. Be slightly silly. How do you find Wine Medo?” he asked, turning to Ms. Maysey. He spoke to her in the same voice he used with Mr. Grey. A slow and methodical putting-together of his words. Not a tone he used for speaking to his countrymen or to Honeydew.
“It’s lovely so far. Only I do worry some. Scent attacks, you know,” Ms. Maysey fiddled with her pipe. She clearly wanted another draw. But she recognized the rudeness of the stagnant cloud, and the danger posed to Tom’s foreign sense of smell.
“The perfume helps some,” she went on. “And my pipe adds more safety. I still think there’s risk…”
“Have you done anything fun?” asked Honeydew.
“I’ve been to some shops. And I saw a candy farm,” Ms. Maysey squirmed. “I will do more stuff. Once I feel healthy, I mean.”
Honeydew started suggesting shows Ms. Maysey might attend. She suddenly stopped. She swatted Mr. Grey’s sleeve. “Our noble host is coming! Look sharp, Mr. Grey.”
Mr. Grey sat up straighter - yes, straighter even than usual - and steeled himself for fresh acquaintance-making.
But just then, halfway through Blushing-in-the-Snow’s glide towards the sitting four, The Wind that Smelled like Rain arrived. “So sorry for being late,” she said, in a ditsy, not-sorry voice.
The hedgecherry petals commenced a deafening rustle. They flew through the sudden gusts in formations and patterns; sometimes dancing into whirling cyclones; sometimes crashing to the turf in great sheets. The petals fell like ashes in The Wind.
The first performer stood.
The Wind’s spirits waxed as sonorous cries and polite applause for the final performer flew away on her breezes. She whisked the applause away all the quicker, that she might fill their ears with her lowing gusts, and the occasional thud of a hedgecherry pit striking the grass. The petals dropped in tart, silky veils. Their shadows made the guests’ skin look scaly. Where the petals landed, some gathered into thick, velvety pillows, like coffin upholstery. Others twitched across the park with each breeze. Still other petals fell into little streams which wriggled between the trees and beneath arching wooden bridges; floating like tiny boats on a gurgling bier of wine.
Mr. Grey sat with a taut spine against the curved moon chair. His violin rested peacefully in its coffin. He spoke without looking at his companions. “Do we need to stay? Or can we duck out early, since the playing’s done?”
“Why don’t we peruse the shops? Or visit the lake?” Honeydew spoke with a tone of affected cheerfulness. She brushed petals off the sunflower eyes of her robe as she stood.
“They’ll reimburse your treasure,” added Tom. “From the enchantment. Then we should get lunch. Let’s get chocolate platters.”
“I’ll look for an attendant,” said Honeydew.
Mr. Grey brushed at a petal as it passed his face. He kept his eyes stationary, and averted from his friends and the other attendees. Before Honeydew moved, he said, “Do you think we could write them? Perhaps they’ll mail it.”
Honeydew clicked as a yes. “Plus, we’re out of place,” she added. “We’d overstay our welcome, as foreign tourists. Isn’t that right Tom?”
“Actually guests…” he began. Honeydew skewered him with withering eyes of oily shine. “Perhaps we would overcrowd,” he revised.
The three of them turned to the brambling, flowery gate which marked the park’s exit. Mr. Grey avoided eye contact - and certainly any goodbye - with Ms. Maysey. She’d moved to her assigned moon-seat just before his performance. She also avoided meeting eyes as Mr. Grey departed.
The three trod the most direct path to the gate arch. They crossed two curving bridges, the boards of which creaked beneath their weight. They stepped softly on the pillows of fallen petals. Mr. Grey kept a fixed gaze on their destination; expression of stone; eyes unblinking. He walked with quick, guilty paces. Honeydew and Tom placed themselves at his flanks.
Their escape failed. Their host, Blushing-in-the-Snow - with his foggy hair, and robe of marble feathers - slid upon them like a wraith. He emerged from an obscuring wall of the crashing petals. The rosy flakes scattered from his paleness. He loomed, a towering specter, beside their exit. He drew forth the gumdrop-symbol fan from a sleeve, whisked the air at his face, and set a milky stare upon the skulking three. Mr. Grey turned his eye. Though he never lost a staring contest, in this instance Mr. Grey couldn’t meet those milky eyes to begin one.
“You are Mr. Grey,” said Blushing-in-the-Snow. His voice was like the sepulchral cracking of lake ice.
“Yes sir, a pleasure. And I believe you’re our host? Most gracious of you; organizing this.”
Snow flicked the fan once. “Your accent shames you. Your playing brings dishonor. Your friends embarrass.”
“I’m… sorry?” said Mr. Grey, forgetting his accent.
Honeydew stepped forward to growl out some challenge. Another flick of the fan cut the words from her throat. “A prosaic performance. You should not have played; you have no talent. And you have no sponsorship. No lordly patron. No grand enchantment. My guests pay to see greatness. Not the commonplace. You have brought offense. Now I must apologize. You shan’t play again.”
Honeydew exploded. “Who are you to ban…”
Snow waved his fan yet again, a brisk, slicing motion. Even Honeydew felt authority in the gesture. “I am lord of Toscamo. I choose who performs. I do not choose you. Return in a few eons. Then you may be fit.”
Before Honeydew could say another word Snow withdrew, spectrally. While sliding back he extended a lazy hand. He dropped the cost of Mr. Grey’s enchantment, a bookmark, on the ground; Tom picked it up. Snow then vanished behind the curtain of falling petals.
The other park visitors purposefully averted their eyes during the harangue. Their ears were another matter.
“Just who does he think he is?” asked Honeydew after a cumbersome silence. Anger clotted her voice.
“He chooses who can enter,” answered Tom. “If he’s banning us, Mr. Grey can’t play. But forget all that gabble. Let’s enjoy a lunch.”
“We should go disguised,” grumbled Honeydew. “He can’t shut Mr. Grey out. He can’t say who works…”
“We’ll find new treasure sources. Let’s not brood on it.”
Mr. Grey had stood through the chastisement and ensuing conversation with the same unreadable expression; the same stiff posture; the same downturned eyes. A careful observer might have noted a deep thoughtfulness in those eyes. But only one who’d known Mr. Grey for a very, very long time. Only one who’d learned to spot the nano-expressions of his face. Neither Tom nor Honeydew noticed the thoughtful eyes. Neither saw the near-invisible shift in the cold stoicism. Neither recognized the same intensity those eyes wore whenever Mr. Grey thought of Jodee Coats; whenever he remembered Jodee’s berating - for a fault that wasn’t his - and the hole she kicked in his cubicle wall.
“Pardon my interrupting,” said Mr. Grey. Tom had been proposing lunch venues. Honeydew had been proposing ways to enter contests incognito. Both looked at him.
Mr. Grey went on, “Are there other venues, Tom? Smaller arrangements?”
Tom looked at him; understanding the words, but surprised by the suggestion. Mr. Grey went on. “If Lord Snow bans us, the contests aren’t viable. But I might still play. Aren’t there private shows? Like a wedding or birthday? We’d still make treasure, just at slower rates.”