Chapter 5 - Dragon Ferry

“This dragon ferry,” said Honeydew to the partisan beside her, “how often’s it come?” She spoke from her mouth’s corner. Her eyes were splayed. They fixed on the lazy, wavy, burbling river of glowing lava.

“Every dozen moments?” Honeydew went on distractedly. “Or only for a certain number of passengers?” The partisan beside her held silent. The fiery stream hissed and gurgled against the solemn shore.

“Well?” asked Honeydew sharply. The gleam in her dark eyes winked out as she turned them from the bright flow to the taciturn partisan.

It was Candlehead.

“Oh, right,” said Honeydew. Candlehead faced her with waxy blankness. He had his shoulders thrown heroically back; one draped with his tattered robe, the other supporting the pipes of bronze.

A normal partisan, standing further along the rocky shore and slipping into a robe that crinkled, called out, “He can’t talk.”

“I don’t want him to.”

“His head’s a candle.”

“That’ll do it.”

Mr. Grey tugged mechanically on the zipper for his own crinkly shield-robe. He paused - the zipper slid back down - and craned his face a fraction nearer the lava. The hot river leant its molten glow to Mr. Grey’s face, flushing his stone cheeks. He asked, “What’s this ship’s track record?”

Nuggets sat on a jagged stone outcrop halfway between Mr. Grey and Honeydew. He wore an absent air. His eyes settled on the pallid, translucent flowers growing on the rocky shore; numerous as limbs felled by a sulking Wind.

“Should be pretty soon,” Nuggets said with his curled hair angled at Honeydew. He tilted it with a bounce toward Mr. Grey. “And I’m sure it’s safe, as long as we wear the robes,” he flapped the sleeves of his shield-robe. It glinted and crinkled. As a last note he said, “And give proper fare.”

This set the other partisans arguing over ‘proper fare’. All but Candlehead. He simply posed, soundless and heroic, at their center. But the others argued like oracle-spider-heads. One said four shiny pebbles was two too much; another, that nothing short of a bookmark would get them aboard. Mr. Grey paid neither partisans nor fare much mind. His shield-robe zipper still fought him to stay undone. But the way nuggets sat so despondently troubled Mr. Grey the most. The downy-cheeked youth hid his budding beard behind two despondent palms. He hadn’t talked recently about Jodee or Odormoats. When he did speak, it was in a nonsenseless, glum tone.

Mr. Grey began rehearsing, in his head, the droll story of the chronological document organization. He wished to lift Nuggets’ spirits.

Tom beat him to it.

Tom had stood far from the blistering shore. Now he strode up behind Nuggets. His shield-robe lay unworn, draped over a shoulder. Sweat gushed from industrious glands on his brow and under his pits, but Tom stood beside Nuggets all the same. He patted the young man’s shoulder and said, “You seem at six and seven.”

“Terrible numbers,” put in Honeydew, still watching the lava.

“I’m just a disappointment,” said Nuggets. “At the Oracle, I made us look bad. Misrepresented Jodee.”

Tom gave him two sweaty pats. “You all learned what you wanted. So you succeeded.”

“But our milk wasn’t taken…”

“So you used it otherwise; for a better cause. That showed quick thinking.”

Nuggets brightened; he wagged his head and jumped to his feet from under Tom’s hand. He said, “You’re saying it right, no point in sulking about. HEHEHEHEHE.” He made as if to dart toward the river, but the sizzle on his boot checked his step.

Mr. Grey added, “Thank you for the milk, it was a fine gift. I won’t say ‘better cause’, though. That’s too kind of you.”

Mr. Grey had directed his last words to Tom. Tom must not have heard. The sweaty man in his zeppelin robe now set his eyes where Nuggets’ had been; on the pale flowers. He let out an awed sigh, crouched down, and sniffled over the blooms. Mr. Grey gave him a troubled lo… Mr. Grey expressed conc… Well at any rate, Mr. Grey felt worried about Tom.

“How’s this work?” asked Honeydew. “Doesn’t the lava harden when it touches the bubble’s rim?”

Nuggets sprang over to her. “No no no no no. It’s more than lava. It’s the Flow of History! It spans Glory days; Panache to Prestige, then Pluck and Antiquity. Through bubble tunnels, the flow courses on. Some pretty sick lore as well. Sun Fish and Rain Fish, working jointly…”

“Ugh, forget I asked,” said Honeydew. She pulled out her mirror and triple-checked her shield-robe. “Tell me when the boat’s here.”

“Oh I think we’ll know. They say it’s a loud vessel.”

Mr. Grey heard a raspy commotion from the road leading to the ferry shore. He looked. His grey eyes walked along the dirt road, stopped, and shook pupils with the wide, darting eyes of Ms. Maysey. She scurried to where Mr. Grey stood in conflict with his zipper. Ms. Maysey waved one hand in hello. With the other she pulled from its pocket her pipe. She held the pipe between her teeth and rifled her robe for the striker. But the pipe flared up on its own, ignited by the Flow of History’s radiant heat. Ms. Maysey jabbed the bit between her lips and caught her breath on the smoke.

“Hello Ms. Maysey,” said Mr. Grey. “Come to board the ferry?” He knew the answer even as he asked; she wore no crinkling, heat-shielding robe.

“Hello Mr. Grey! Goodness no. Not for me, journeying over lava rivers. Can you imagine? With my constitution?” she coughed out a plume.

“I think you’d be alright. They have us wear these robes for protection.”

“It is boiling. I’m surprised this kind of thing’s King’s Law.”

Mr. Grey turned his eyes away and thumbed the casing of his pocket ticker. He said, “I’m sure the boat man has his captain’s license.”

“Well, luck on the journey. I heard you were leaving. Thought I’d see you and your friend group off. As for me, it’s on to Panache. There, tourists can move about a little. I hope to do some sightseeing, to feel like I got something done. I’ll still need to relax here and there. My health, you know.”

“Luck to you as well, Ms. Maysey.”

“Oh, and I brought you this for your travels,” She handed him a thumb-sized crystal bottle. “Protective cologne. But stone-scented. Fits you particularly.” Ms. Maysey chuckled at her own joke.

Mr. Grey pulled his arms from the shield-robe, undoing all the progress he’d made in his battle, and accepted her gift. “Won’t you need it?” he asked. “If you’re mingling with other tourists?”

“Not to worry Mr. Grey, not to worry. I’ve got my own bottle. And my pipe.” she coughed out another plume as if to emphasize.

“Then thank you, Ms. Maysey. Your health and safety.”

Ms. Maysey met Mr. Grey’s stiff handshake with a light one of her own. She darted suddenly back the way she’d come, with her mouse curls bouncing. Just before disappearing around the bends of the dirt road, she turned and shouted. “Word of warning: that Ordus fellow was looking for you. Oh, and those ‘Finders for Hire’ too!” Ms. Maysey managed to time her escape perfectly. Her voice reached Mr. Grey, but she disappeared before he could respond.

Mr. Grey walked over by Honeydew. She folded her arms, and observed, “She came and went quick.”

“I hope it’s only a misunderstanding,” said Mr. Grey. He renewed the fierce struggle to tighten the crinkly, wrinkly, loose fabric of his shield-robe with its belligerent zipper.

“Did far-darter Maysey bring trouble?”

“I don’t know. But best if we get underway soon.” Mr. Grey leaned as closely as he felt comfortable over the slow-flowing lava, and looked up and down the stream. His face took on the Bottomworld gargoyle look; stony and evil. He saw no boat.

“Don’t bother. I’ve been watching. We’re on boatman’s-time.”

“Even though we have to wait, and even if there’s some communications failure with the Defense Force, I’m excited about this leg.”

“I hope Antiquity’s got something worth the trip. It’d be a change in pace. Something nobody back at Starharbor can say they’ve seen.”

“There’s history everywhere in the bubbles. The war with the king, eons ago. And all this ‘great fishes’ lore.”

“If you’re into it it’s there.”

“I’m glad we’re finally traveling together. It’s a team-vacation.”

“It feels safer,” she clicked obscurely. “I admit, I’m glad we have Tom’s mallet. Though lately he looks world-worn.”

Tom heard his name and stomped over. Each footstep sizzled. He blew his nose into a damp handkerchief, faced Honeydew, and said, “It’s healthy to quest. The bracing air refreshes, the trek fortifies.”

“The plan grew on me,” said Mr. Grey. “At the oracle’s temple. When nuggets pleaded. And gave me the milk. It suddenly seemed faster; trail the followers, get to Jodee Coats. Shame you missed the temple Tom.”

Tom squeezed into his own reflective robe. Before he could answer, their attentions were stolen.

From up the lava river came a sound like thunder with a stutter. As one the dispersed eyes along the craggy shore looked up the flow. They saw, chugging slowly and noisily through the bubbling, steaming, earthen syrup, a ski-shaped watercraft. Water-wheel paddles at its sides threw glowing stone globs into the air, like jelly tossed by a Starharbor tram. The ski’s dragon engine gurgled as it paddled forth, with each stutter booming in time to the metal paddles smacking the lava. The engine and the blades pulled a long passenger-bed. A hooded, hunched, tiny form stood at the vessel’s helm.

Mr. Grey at last fought his shield-robe zipper to a nearly-closed truce. He walked to stand by the shore, with his violin coffin held in a tight-fisted clutch. Tom donned his own protection, and overtop he re-buckled his mallet holster. Honeydew stood ready, with only a single suitcase of robes and cosmetics. The three gathered with the partisans at the edge of the lava.

The short skiman lifted his sooty hands to his hood. He pulled it slowly back. He was a pipkin stoat. The stoat looked down at the gathering with the same beady eyes as the mender-of-signs had, back in Wine Medo. The exact same eyes, Mr. Grey thought. With one hand, the stoat stroked the same bristly chin borne by the tavern-fire-stoker, back in Starharbor. The exact same chin.

The stoat skiman looked upon them with a taciturn, rugged face. He said nothing, only held out a paw, pads up.

Now the partisans faltered. Mr. Grey heard them whispering behind him; one asked if three pebbles was appropriate. Someone suddenly pushed Mr. Grey by his spine, and he stumbled forward with a sizzle. Mr. Grey caught himself and brought himself up before the tiny, extended hand of the pipkin stoat.

“Ah, hello. Excuse me, have we met?” asked Mr. Grey.

The skiman did not answer.

“In any case, could you tell me the appropriate Antiquity fare?”

Still the skiman said nothing.

“Does… do two calcified bugs sound fair?” Mr. Grey dug inside his treasure purse, withdrew the bugs, and dropped them into the stoat’s hand.

The skiman maintained his silence. But, his hairy fingers closed over the bugs. Behind Mr. Grey one partisan groaned, and whispered, “Now we’re all expected to pay that much!”

The stoat skiman brought the calcified bugs to a treasure purse on the ski deck at his side. He loosened the drawstrings, set the additional treasure on top, and jumped up and down on the purse, stomping in the contents.

And, still not talking, the stoat gestured that Mr. Grey should board the craft. And Mr. Grey boarded. And the partisans, and Tom, and Honeydew as well, boarded, on the river of lava. And the coal-furred fingers of the skipper did tightly wrap the upright handles; and the coal-furred wrists did twist; and yea, the dragon ski did rev.

---

The dragon ski bobbed and skimmed through the burning river. From the piled cargo at the passenger bed’s front, a suitcase detached. It hit the floor and exploded open. From inside flew an emerald studded carafe. Grand treasure. The valuable kitchenware soared past the partisans. It hurtled backward; destined either for the boat’s lava wake, or bubble tunnel walls through which they sped.

Mr. Grey, sitting at the back, reached a dry hand out and caught the carafe by its handle. He drew his arm back - his reflective robe crinkled as molten flecks thrown by the paddles spattered and hardened on it - and tucked the carafe under an elbow. He turned his face away from the singeing matter thrown up by the ski paddles and looked stonily at the passenger across from him.

It was Candlehead. The eyeless, mouthless partisan showed no sign of gratitude, no emotion of any kind. He held out an open hand for the carafe. Though Candlehead had no face through which to express, he seemed somehow less stoic at that moment; the wax ran down his candle like bullets of sweat in the lava river’s radiant warmth. Mr. Grey, nevertheless, gladly passed the carafe into the hero’s hand. He resumed a grey-knuckled grip on the ski railing.

Candlehead did not suffer alone. The heat swelled around them with every gooey, glowing speck of lava tossed by the paddles. Every set of lungs - except for Candlehead’s - heaved the burning air in and out, like laborers at a coal-stove. Every set of hands - except for Mr. Grey’s - sent rivers of sweat running down the handrails they clutched, which turned into hissing clouds of steam when they poured off the boat’s stern. Every face - except for the stoat skiman’s - looked longingly at the cool sea, gliding just out of reach behind the bubble-tunnel membrane.

Mr. Grey looked to their squat, stoic captain. The tiny hood fluttered wildly behind him, and the fur pressed flat on his face, as he skippered the dragon ski over the blazing river. With practiced wrist flicks, he sent the craft lurching forward whenever they came to a high crest of lava. The passengers bounced in their seats as the ship bobbed. The dragon engine powering the craft let out a satisfied purr at each subtle twist of the hand; like a hunting cat gnawing over a carcass.

As though sensing Mr. Grey’s eyes on his back, the stoat turned. He wore a pithless, world-weary expression. He paused looking back, still keeping the ski on a bobbing straight line. After a moment, he lifted a finger and pointed.

Mr. Grey, the only one looking up at that time, took one hand from the safety rail and prodded his crinkly-shielded chest, as if to say, “You mean me?” The skiman shook his head and pursed his lips, and jabbed harder with his finger; pointing, Mr. Grey realized, behind the dragon ski. Mr. Grey looked wake-ward. He raised his voice over the dragon roar, and said, “I think there’s a problem.”

The other passengers’ eyes followed Mr. Grey’s.

Behind them, another ship skimmed the flow. Through their wake, three decks of mechanical oars shoved an iron prow. The galley’s metal hull glowed as vibrant as the lava through which it slipped; so that the ship, with synchronized-stroking oars, seemed a cross between a dragonfly and centipede; an evil, elemental, primordial centipede, chasing the partisans over the molten stone.

A fishhook-beaked, metal albatross served as the galley’s figurehead. Behind it, one hand atop the bird’s flanged feather, posed diegeonary Ordus.

The distance between them shrank. The ski passengers listened, above their engines roar, to the pursuing galley’s prehistoric snarl. Ordus saw they’d noticed his ship. He threw his chest up, threw his chin back, and pegged them with his seashell trumpet. Above the syncopated engines’ rumbling they heard the diegeonary’s screams.

“Thought you could escape, did you? Thought you’d steal tactical information for Jodee, recruit some tourists for her Horde, then flee for Antiquity to spread dissent? On a river made by the very Sun Fish I serve? Well, news flash people; THAT AIN’T HAPPENING! ”

Candlehead stood; one hand on the rail, the other holding the carafe. The wax flew in streams from his cylinder. His wick danced in the hot air like a lonely hair strand. He faced the closing galley.

Meanwhile, the partisans bicker-shouted over the engine’s roar.

“Can’t this ski go any faster?!”

Maybe we can churn up some big waves by serpentining.”

“Idiot! Their boat’s bigger than ours. That would never work!”

One of the partisans looked at where Mr. Grey, Tom, and Honeydew sat in a row. She said, “You three are outlanders; can’t you make some oddball, foreign ploy?”

Honeydew clung on the safety rail. She didn’t hear the partisan. Mr. Grey brought a thumb and finger to his chin. His stoic, thoughtful expression looked out-of-place against the backdrop of rolling sea-wall, growling dragon engine, and spewing fire-earth. He spoke in an outside-voice. “Any shifts in the terrain? To break line-of-sight? Or some obstacle; something we can put between?”

Some of the members looked over the gunnels. They pulled instantly back from the boiling stone flecks flung up by the paddles.

One partisan with freshly-singed brows said, “There are three-faced seals known to swim these uncharted earths. Maybe we could enlist one.”

Another added, “Somewhere along the History there’s a ramp of pure adamantine. We could jump it… you know… That might help!”

After a moment of consideration by the partisans, Tom spoke. “Both dangerous plots. Why not try the two at once?” He relaxed easily in two bench seats, sweating but unconcerned.

Nuggets suddenly stood; the only one upright aside from Candlehead. “I’m not even scared!” he said, waving his visa near the bubble tunnel roof. “Let’s defy not-existing! Let’s drink…”

Candlehead took his left hand from the rail, placed it on Nuggets’s shoulder, and pushed him back to the bench. A rogue mote of slag soared where Nuggets’s head had been. The waxen-headed man casually returned his left hand to the rail. He’d held the carafe tight in his right’s fingers throughout, and held his hero’s pose.

Another tourist at the front called back, “Candlehead’s right Nuggets. Those plans are just too dangerous. We can’t risk failing our quest.”

Ordus’s screaming grew louder. “Nothing escapes the rays of the Sun Fish! Give up now, while you still have the chance!”

Tom brought a thumb and finger to his chin in an unconscious imitation of Mr. Grey. “I could whack them when they board,” he said. He gave his mallet a light shake.

The partisans liked the idea. Honeydew - slipping and swaying, somehow struggling for balance despite being seated - shot it down. “Wonderful thinking,” she snapped sarcastically. “A mallet against bullets.”

Mr. Grey said, “I remember a visa applicant’s story similar to this. Well for them, it was more of a routine boat inspection. But the whole thing was a misunderstanding. It turned out the best thing for that applicant was to stop. Await the inspection…”

The ski swerved under a jerk of the stoat’s wrist. The dragon engine gurgled as they veered by a craggy wedge of unmelted stone. It slid past their port. The passengers’ eyes followed the boulder as it shrank behind. They looked back to the galley; too wide to slip around the boulder like their ski. The passengers held their breath.

The Defense Force galley smashed the boulder to fragments. It passed through unscathed. The triple decks of oars pumped up-and-down, up-and-down. Ordus sneered, and the galley surged closer.

The partisan’s shoulders sagged. Even Candlehead’s dropped. Mr. Grey thought this was the legendary demifish accepting defeat.

Candlehead did not resign. With the right hand he held the emerald carafe toward the bubble-tunnel roof. After taking the left from the rail, he pulled his bagpipes onto his chest. He squeezed.

An intricate, if not exactly melodious, wheeze surged from the bronze; a battle-hymn played to perfection. Candlehead had no mouth with which to blow, but on their own the pipes squealed. With a practiced hand, the master worked his instrument.

And, Mr. Grey had to admit, the enchant was grand. The ski’s passengers saw the tunnel-membrane warble. Then with a pop, the carafe disappeared.

The membrane burst.

Sea water exploded into the tunnel behind. It hissed onto the river of molten earth, throwing up fragments of stone and steam. The lava solidified instantly. Their own ski took a collateral scathing from the enchantment. The hardened stone clipped the tail end, and they swerved unsteadily on the lava waves. And only a tock after, the bubble resealed over the rupture.

But the effect worked. The pursuing galley hit the patch of hardened river. It slammed hard into the solidified stone, skidded a short way overtop, and was beached.

As the skiman stoat revved their bruised craft forward, Ordus’s screams faded. “Cowards!” he cried after them. “If you think you’ve seen the last of me…” His voice slipped out of hearing. The passengers heaved a communal sigh. Candlehead sat down, his bagpipes wheezed their last gasp.

And the dragon ski sailed on, through the searing tunnel.