Chapter 6 - Museumtown and Country
Time sweltered…
Mr. Grey swiveled on his feet; a loud, static popping echoed overhead. His grey eyes shot along the tight, smooth stones of the old street. Shot under the pale arches. Shot past the marble-swirled walls of buildings. The grey eyes flicked from face to face, pedestrian to pedestrian. He searched for Tom. For Honeydew. For Nuggets or Candlehead. For familiar faces in sudden danger. Which direction was the static? He searched for a flashing muzzle of dark metal. He spotted the source a dozen paces down the street.
It was a lightning burner; a harmless, flaring sparkmaker. It sent a bolt of electricity skyward. A young girl and boy danced around the sparking toy. The vendor who’d sold it chuckled at their merrymaking. The traffic plying the smooth, paved street showed not the least disturbance. Mr. Grey did not release his stiff posture, but his heart’s thunder slowly melted off.
As his pulse mellowed Mr. Grey spotted a familiar shape. Tom stood beside the vendor, twisting his wrists around his own lightning-burner. Mr. Grey trod a swift course to his friend. As a lost sailor finds new vigor at the long-missed sight of land; he kicks his feet with fury, pushes a hand in the salty waves with newfound gusto, drives his driftwood existence-preserve through the foam; just so did Mr. Grey speed toward Tom. He paused for a passing herd of locals with the upper bodies of men and the lower bodies of cowsowhorses. He gave way to a Wereterrier with an oak-hoop robe. But, at last, he arrived in Tom’s safe company.
On crossing the busy street he found not just Tom, but Honeydew. The sunflower-eyes patterning her dress hid behind Tom’s robe of cloud-zeppelins. Also nearby - under the many-headed shadow of a stone-bust shop - were the partisans.
Mr. Grey cleared his throat with a dry cough. He spoke over the shrill din of one passing celebrant’s parchment party-whistle. “I think I got lost. In all this hurley burly. Is this typical? For Museumtown?”
Tom kept trying to ignite his lightning burner. Mr. Grey reflected that Tom’s hearing failed him often recently. He turned to Honeydew instead.
She stretched her arms and twisted her image in a warped mirror. The new single-strap, local-style cut she was testing bore the same pattern of sunflower-eyes as her usual robe. The enormous gopher-haired tailor who’d sold it to her (a distant relative of Ms. Maysey, thought Mr. Grey) crossed his arms. The gopher eyes of his hair narrowed. He said the price was two tie clasps. Honeydew counter-offered a bag of cat bones (without the skull, of course). They haggled.
Mr. Grey walked away. His shoes tapped evenly on the smooth road stones. The happy clamor of celebrating citizens muffled his steps. He passed swiftly under thin shadow bands thrown by high marble arches. The counter of one shop did get his attention. Two displays caught his grey orbs; one of antique clams, and one of antique violins. But he passed this as well, for he liked his own instrument, and stepped over to the partisans.
Jodee Coats’ followers passed pamphlets busily to both Museumtown’s monstrous resident’s, and its visiting tourists. A frier of any-and-all things was set up close by with her kitchen cart. She battered, breaded, and sizzled foods - and other sundries - brought her by hungry customers. The greasy musk of her cart suffused not just the walls, roads, and passing tourists, but the air itself. It formed a cloud around the partisans. The revolutionary whispers they passed out with each pamphlet were laden with butter breath. When one of Jodee’s lot whispered to a passerby with beehive skin and honey robes; when that partisan said that Jodee would liberate - not just Museumtown - but all of Antiquity, and the bubble of Pluck after, and would let all tourists travel freely in Glory Days; when the partisan spoke thus, the greasy-words joined with the humid air. The lardy whisper worked against the beehive-skinned woman’s senses. Rather than rouse her with rebellious verve, the words lulled her to sleep. She yawned, and stumbled off sluggishly.
Mr. Grey walked to the edge of Jodee’s group. He found Nuggets, tapped a grey finger on the rose-flower-suspender of the young man’s robe, and said, “Shouldn’t we move on?”
Nuggets side-eyed him while handing a pamphlet to a passing boxer. “No way Mr. Grey,” he said with a sharp wag of his downy cheeks. “The crowd flocks to Candlehead.”
Mr. Grey thought the crowd flocked more to the handfuls of shiny pebbles the partisans gave with each pamphlet, than to Candlehead’s heroic figure. Rather than voice that notion, he said, “I thought we needed a guide. For finding The Lost City. Isn’t that our goal?”
“Come on Mr. Grey! Look at all these strange faces!”
“I’m aware of them.”
“For finding recruits, it’s a golden chance!”
“It’s conspicuous.”
Nuggets waved to attract passersby while he handed a half-dozen pebbles to a pedestrian in a crow-feather robe. “Don’t think of soldiers. It’s a festival. Defense Forces are asleep. Hehehehehe.”
From the other side of the group, another partisan stage-whispered. “Psst, voices down, look casual. Defense Force, coming this way!”
Mr. Grey angled his ankles, balanced on his toes, and craned his neck. He looked over the partisans’ heads, past Candlehead’s wick. At the street’s far end, Defense Force soldiers marched through the throng of diversely-dressed tourists and chimeric locals. They pushed gently but firmly through a gaggle of tourists in Wine Medo style, Sourbeak-feather robes. They passed through a sentient stone door with a face, not by answering its riddle, but with a warrant. The soldiers did not trample the toddler hydra separated from its mother and caught in their path. One picked it up and set it aside. They kept their guns safely on their shoulders, but they marched, resolvedly, down the street.
The Defense Force soldiers cast cursory glances at everyone they passed. Mr. Grey turned to put some distance between himself and the partisans. After all, he thought, he wasn’t genuinely part of their group. But the partisans bunched up and swallowed Mr. Grey into their middle. They stopped passing out pamphlets, whispers, and shiny pebbles. This only drew new attention; those tourists and locals who’d yet to receive their free treasure - or who returned for a second helping - suddenly flocked to the group.
Mr. Grey used his ankle-toe-neck maneuver again. He searched for escape routes. Across the street stood Honeydew and Tom. Honeydew wore her new Glory Days robe. Tom twisted his lightning burner. They looked helplessly back at Mr. Grey. Mr. Grey glanced at the approaching Defense Force. The armed men had noticed the commotion around Jodee’s partisans. They marched on a direct line at the group. Mr. Grey reversed his usual tread. He backstepped away from the approaching soldiers and out of the cluster. Surprisingly, the partisans parted for him. Mr. Grey slipped easily through the group; partisans slid by like water.
Then his back struck something solid. He turned. Mr. Grey’s eyes met a metal chest plate embossed with a prawn-fish icon. He looked up into a leader-of-men’s steely gaze; into the eyes of a Defense Force captain. He stood at the head of a second patrol from the opposite end of the street.
The celebration ended in every mouth. The arches above seemed to thicken, throwing broader shadows over the boulevard. The captain stared at Mr. Grey. He brought up a warrant; legal-looking to Mr. Grey’s practiced eyes. He said, “You there! Are you the speaker for this party? This group doling out handfuls of shiny pebbles and pamphlets?” The captain held up one of the pamphlets, still-folded, next to the warrant in his other hand.
Mr. Grey’s heart jumped triple-time with his pocket ticker’s tock. His words were, nonetheless, in regular monotone. “I wouldn’t say ‘speaker’, per se. And I haven’t personally doled out any handfuls.”
“So you’re not just some regular handler… I’m guessing you must be the leader then? The one who tugs the strings.”
Mr. Grey glanced behind. By now, the other patrol of soldiers had reached the group. Jodee’s partisans were enclosed by men with guns. Candlehead stood conspicuous in the center. Mr. Grey thought that, perhaps, the candle attracted less notice among the Museumtown’s local monsters.
The Defense Force captain brought Mr. Grey’s eyes back with a shake of the pamphlet and warrant. “So what are you then, a master enchanter and his students? Don’t try to hide that violin at your side. Yeah, trying to lure people in maybe. The first enchantment’s free, you’ll even toss the customer a pebble. Is that how you snare people? Well it’s none of my business. My business is tracking down breakers of the king’s laws, and those who foment rebellion.”
Mr. Grey cleared his dry throat. He said, “Well officer, I can say with certainty that I’m not trying to work against the king. It’s actually a fact; I work in a government office myself. At the change of address department in the Starharbor Regional Justice Center. I have a healthy respect for both the Odormoats, and the safety they maintain, and I wouldn’t dream of seeing them overthrown. I don’t get involved in that sort of conflict. It would be wrong; such matters aren’t my business. And as far as being a master enchanter… That’s flattering of you to say, but my talents are modest. I have performed one grand enchantment, back during my days - or perhaps it’s more understandable to say ‘my time’ - in Wine Medo. That was under special circumstances, however, and I’m sure I couldn’t repeat the effort. That’s neither here nor there. As far as your task of tracking down rebels and-”
“Yeesh, I get it!” the guard interrupted. “You could have just told me you’re a Museumtown resident. You could have said you have a right to sell your services, and no knowledge of the tourist horde. We’ll leave you to it.”
The guard handed the unopened pamphlet to Mr. Grey, about-faced, whirled a finger in the air, and led his patrol back through the crowded street. The patrol on the other side did the same. As they left, Mr. Grey heard one soldier joke, “Never heard of a gorgon’s voice before.”
When the soldiers were gone and the celebrations resumed, Nuggets walked to Mr. Grey and patted him on the shoulder. “Good job Mr. Grey,” he said. “You’ve mastered the local tongue.” Nuggets took Mr. Grey by the wrist and gave him a handful of shiny pebbles.
Mr. Grey said, “Nuggets, I should say; your cause isn’t mine. I’m sorry but I-”
“No sweat Mr. Grey. I like your style anyway. Yes sir yes sir yes.”
“Thank you I suppose.”
The other partisans readied their luggage. Nuggets said, “The plan now is to split up. Find a townish guide. We’ll meet up later, at the town’s Panacheward edge. See you in an age.”
Nuggets, Candlehead, and the rest of Jodee’s partisans took off through the street. They fractured into smaller units as they passed each pale-stoned intersection of thoroughfare and alley. They dissolved entirely; each duo or trio prowling for a guide. The partisans left Mr. Grey alone, beneath the shadow of an arch; in the buttery, hot, humid, celebrating throng.
A tock later Tom and Honeydew joined him.
“While they’re friendly folk, I’m glad they’ve moved on,” Mr. Grey said. “They do stretch King’s Law. And they’re a bit too brazen.”
Honeydew stretched her arms in her new robe. “Just a bit,” she said.
Tom tugged his lightning burner; and the lid finally cracked open. Buttery air rushed into the device. The igniter started. A spark flared and sprinted down the wick.
Honeydew fingers shot out and snuffed it. Tom glared at her, but she said. “Little less show, Tom.”
“Ah sorry, you’re right,” said Tom. He looked crestfallen.
“Let’s look for a guide,” said Mr. Grey.
They were being followed.
Honeydew pulled Mr. Grey and Tom into an exhibit on the museum’s second story. They ducked behind a dusty, bleached, taxidermied cowsowhorse bull, rearing on a plinth.
“Do we know who they are?” Honeydew said in a low hiss.
As if in answer, voices echoed. Echoed through the galleries and atriums. Echoed around pillars and podiums. Echoed under the ancient dust of stone benches, and echoed over relic-filled displays. Echoed, to where the three crouched.
“Do you know, my lovely familiar, what I find most appalling… palling… ling… ing…?” echoed one voice.
“What… what… at…?” echoed another.
“That we should find ourselves among such history - such Antiquity! - and yet, unable to pause and admire it… mire it… it…”
“Got a job… job… job…”
“And how lamentable! That our task should require these soldiers’ assistance. When all might be so reasonably concluded by contract… by contract… contract… tract…”
Mr. Grey dropped his head from its neck-stretched, ear-strained listening. Tom and Honeydew joined him in a huddle. “It’s Blackjaw and Slake,” said Mr. Grey.
“With soldiers as well,” added Honeydew. All three held their breath and noted the synchronized leather-boot-drum on the marble floor.
“Their voices make me queasy,” said Tom. He clutched at his stomach.
“You can’t be here,” said a new voice behind the three. They stood and spun as one.
Leaning on a broom made from a crooked, knobby tree-branch and dried chicktails, there stood an old janitor. He wore a single-strap robe. He wore it especially low on his front, so that the shark’s-head which took the place of his belly could breathe. Where a normal head went on a regular janitor, this janitor sported a tall fin.
The bored shark face on his belly looked up into theirs; Tom’s startled face, Honeydew’s suspicious one, and the expressionless mask of Mr. Grey. “You can’t be here,” repeated the shark through rows of jagged ivory. “Museum’s closed at festival.”
“We were just leaving,” said Mr. Grey. The janitor grunted, jiggling his shark-belly-face. He began sweeping the dust and echoes out from under a stone bench.
Honeydew said, “I saw a fire exit down the hall,” She went to the exhibit threshold, checked the painting and statue-lined corridor for pursuers, and stalked out. Tom and Mr. Grey followed.
They reached the fire exit, but found the door locked. “Tom, break it open,” said Honeydew. She threw a quick look behind.
“But we’re in a museum,” said Tom with a furrowed brow. “It seems uncivil. Besides, the lock’s strong.”
The three heard another chorus of echoes travel the dusty halls.
“Now this won’t do, my dearest Mr. Grey… Mr. Grey… Grey…” came Slake’s whine down the corridor. It slithered over the smooth tile.
“Very rude… ry rude… rude…” barked Blackjaw’s. His voice rebounded off the statues.
“This terrible difficulty you’ve tangled yourself in - with these eloquent locals - it’s the exact dilemma finder’s fix all the time… all the time… the time… time…!”
“Standard signing… signing… ning…”
“Beauteous Blackjaw, I think we’re able to offer our Grey friend more. More than just the chance to ease his buddy Bugwitch’s burden. Why, with scant more than a few penscrawls, he’d have the necessary funds - not just for any legal fees resulting in his distressing selection of allies - but to purchase anything he wants; here in splendid Glory Days… Glory days… days…”
“One big loan; one low interest… low interest… interest…”
With each trade in Blackjaw and Slake’s exchange, the echoes resounded louder and closer. The synchronized boots echoed with them. The three felt surrounded by an army of marching soldiers. Mr. Grey said, “Let’s forget this way. Surely there’s another door.”
They soft-ran down a side corridor with walls lines in glass cases. These cases showed disintegrating robes of plant fiber and Woe Worm silk. Blackjaw and Slake’s taunting offers, and the marching boots of soldiers, followed close behind. Honeydew clicked low. “This is stupid. What do they want anyway?”
Mr. Grey’s feet echoed themselves; severely as he strode along behind. He simply could not soften his step to less than an office-trot. “There’s a stoop dweller at home,” he answered. “He goes by Bugwitch. He signed a contract; a dragon’s hoard treasure loan. My name’s listed too, as the guarantor.”
Honeydew stopped and whirled. She pressed a palm to Mr. Grey’s shoulder. Tom ran a few paces past, then pounded, softly, to a halt. Honeydew said, “You did not sign a finder’s contract…”
Mr. Grey searched along the robe-lined, open hall. He inclined his neck to the pillared entry of an antechamber. The three slipped inside. They rounded the corner and threw themselves flush against the wall.
Above them stretched a wide oil painting in a heavy, filigreed-driftwood frame. The painting showed a woman - fair hair, smooth skin, soft eyes - sitting under the shaded boughs of a hedgecherry tree. Her many-folded robe suggested the portrait’s subject was of Wine Medo. The plaque beneath the painting confirmed this fact. It added that, in days of old, she had been a Wisdom, well-versed in varied fields. In her arms the fair woman held three golden hedgecherries: one of flawless smoothness, one of bumpy texture but sterling shine, and one that simply looked good to eat.
Honeydew crouched against the wall beneath the leftmost, smooth hedgecherry. She nudged Mr. Grey on the shoulder, wanting an answer. Mr. Grey - squatting uncomfortably under the bumpy, shiny hedgecherry’s spotlight glitter - held a finger to his lips. He motioned to the doorway. Tom reached to touch the hedgecherry he sat under, decided that was improper, and waited patiently.
Two tocks later, the three heard the marching bootsteps and the jeers of Blackjaw and Slake. No longer their echoes, but the genuine articles. Honeydew, Tom, and Mr. Grey waited with breaths held. Their hearts beat at odds. Tom’s worked hard but steadily pumping blood to every corner of his large body. Honeydew’s ran haphazardly and unpredictably, now from one ventricle, now from the other. Mr. Grey’s beat a perfect double-time with his ticker.
The footsteps and jeers drew closer. The three tensed against the wall. The voices came from just by the doorway.
“Now where might our misguided prospect have placed himself, bonny Blackjaw?”
“Beats me Slake.”
The voices stopped at the doorway… then moved past. They drifted away with the crew of soldiers. Their echoes still hounded the three.
Honeydew, Mr. Grey, and Tom let go their breaths. Tom said, “We’re not yet free of those two.”
Honeydew stabbed Mr. Grey’s shoulder with a finger, “Well?” she asked. “Did you sign?”
“Not exactly, no,” said Mr. Grey. “I think Bugwitch added it. I’m sure by mistake.”
Honeydew relaxed. “So it’s a forgery? They’ve got no legal standing.”
“It’s not so simple. Signatures are hard to prove; harder to disprove. They could make trouble.”
“Then we keep ahead of them.”
Mr. Grey hesitated. “Maybe they’ll negotiate? To the Defense Force, we’d explain ourselves. To finders Slake and Blackjaw, I could pay the debt.”
Tom glowered at him. Honeydew said, “You can’t be serious.”
“It is the most lawful way.”
“Is it lawful to pay a forged debt?”
Mr. Grey’s ticker tocked quietly in its pocket. “Well, maybe not then,” he said at length. He breathed heavily through his nose.
A voice made all three start.
“I told you; museum’s closed,” said the shark-bellied janitor. He leaned on his broom by the pillared antechamber threshold. The shark eyes in his stomach were shiny and half-lidded in boredom, but he bared his rows of pearly teeth.
The three held still a moment, crouched beneath the Wisdom’s portrait, as though caught in a heist. Tom leaned from the wall said, “We’re deciding on a plan.”
“Plan somewhere else.”
Honeydew clicked. “Can’t you chase the other group?” she asked, glaring at the janitor.
“They’re Defense Force. They can stay. You need to leave.”
Honeydew looked to Tom and Mr. Grey. “Let’s run for the entrance,” she said. “We’ll outpace the hunters.”
Mr. Grey stood. He bumped his head against the Wisdom’s golden-hedgecherry-laden arms. The janitor growled. Mr. Grey said, “Apologies, we’ll leave now,” and waved the other two to follow.
They edged from under the Wisdom’s portrait, slipped from the antechamber, and crept back through the hall of robes. “I’ve got a better…” Mr. Grey began. He glanced at Honeydew. “I… think I have a good plan.”
Mr. Grey spoke while they crept through the gaunt, dusty museum. He spoke in a whisper. Honeydew and Tom listened. While they moved, the soldiers’ boots and the voices of Blackjaw and Slake chased. Sometimes the voices chased through distant corridors and exhibits, and they heard only the ghosts of echoes. Sometimes the voices felt right against their ears.
Mr. Grey finished speaking. They stood now in an interior courtyard of the museum, under the shaded intersection of three marble colonnades. Withered seaweed and fossilized coral splayed out beneath the sweltering Sun Fish light, surrounding the intersection in carefully arranged gardens. The whine of Slake and bark of Blackjaw swooped among the fossil-gardens from the balconies. Mr. Grey, Tom, and honeydew felt exposed and surrounded. Nevertheless, they paused.
Tom looked to the balconies. He said, “If we split apart, I can’t protect you.”
“Keep your mallet sheathed, I think,” Mr. Grey answered. He looked at Tom, but Tom wouldn’t meet his eye. “This plan’s nonviolent.”
Honeydew said, “Once we’re split, you’ll just turn around, walk up to the finders, and submit,” She gave one pointy, accusatory click.
“Genuinely no. That was a mistaken thought, I do see that now.” Honeydew looked unconvinced. Mr. Grey added, “If it satisfies, you can hold my violin. As… plan insurance.”
He held the violin-coffin toward Honeydew, but Tom snatched it instead. With eyes still searching the balconies, Tom said, “You’ll play this again, only if we meet as planned.”
Mr. Grey was about to point out how he’d just suggested that very thing, when they heard another distinct trade of words from Blackjaw and Slake.
“Well my admirable inamorato, it seems we’re taken on a merry chase… ry chase… chase…”
“Real jackalope hunt… jackalope hunt… lope hunt…”
“Such a waste of valuable Glorious Defense Force time. And manpower… manpower… power…”
The words seemed to zoom just over their heads; as though Blackjaw prowled on one side of the balconies, and Slake lurked across the courtyard on another. All around were the soldiers’ tramping boots. Honeydew tugged the other two deeper into the colonnades’ pall. “No time to quibble.” She clicked decisively. She shoved Mr. Grey one direction, shoved Tom another, and shot off herself along a third. The three split, fleeing in different directions from the pursuit of Blackjaw and Slake.
Some while later, Tom wrestled his breath to a hold. He watched Blackjaw and Slake walk into his room. They skulked in the midst of a dozen soldiers wearing metal chestplates and bracers. The finders carried parchment and quills; the soldiers carried guns. The group stopped in the center of the room, surrounded by the featured display. Blackjaw and Slake gazed around from behind their circular, dark glasses.
“Dearest Blackjaw, I have a question for you.”
“What, Slake?”
“Have you ever seen such brutal barbarity - such vulgar violence - elsewhere paraded?”
“It’s grisly.”
“Oh yes! That’s the very word for it. Grrrr-Iz-Lee. Poor men and women; bereft of loan opportunities; pounding each other’s destitute bodies with… what are those things called again?”
“Mallets I think.”
“Mallets. Again, the very word. And some of these sculptures, they look so real!”
A soldier cut in. “The grey rebel who we’re after, and who you’re helping us find, is clearly not here. Let’s move on.”
Blackjaw growled, Slake sighed. The pursuers left the Wine Medo Warfare Exhibit. Tom relaxed his posture with a sigh, and stowed his mallet.
After a stretch of time following, Honeydew’s narrowed eyes flicked to the hunting party as it reached her hiding place.
“Oh, but this does remind me of home! Doesn’t it remind you of home, Blackjaw?”
“Like a warm quill.”
“How many times has it been? You and I, finding our clients and ourselves in wheelhouses just like this?”
“Lots.”
“Do these machines work, I wonder? Maybe that shark-faced fellow can give us a free spin?”
Honeydew didn’t know it, but the same soldier who’d spoken in Tom’s room, spoke again now. “No time; this Mr. Grey must be elsewhere. Room like this, if he were here, he’d stick out like scales on a cowsowhorse.”
The group left the museum wheelhouse. Honeydew scowled after them.
At last, after the passage of many moments - almost an eon - Blackjaw and Slake came to Mr. Grey’s gallery. The grey eyes settled on them coolly.
“Now this room here, Blackjaw; this is what I love to see. Why, if misguided Mr. Grey would etch out a teensy little scrawl on an insignificant scrap of parchment, he could spend the rest of his days among such fine company. It’s just so… so…”
“Historic?”
“Stoney! Close, Blackjaw, but no. Stoney’s the word I want.”
The cold grey eyes followed; sliding sideways; voyeuresque; the only moving part of Mr. Grey; tracking the skulk of the finders underneath.
“Imagine how ancient some of these statues must be, dearest Blackjaw. How much effort - how much treasure - must have been in their making.”
“More than Mr. Grey has.”
“Oh far more. Far…”
The old soldier interrupted Slake for the third time. “Look, your man and our man’s clearly flown this place. He and his fellow barbarians must have slipped out a back exit. And all the while, you’ve had us wasting our time, touring these stupid exhibits. Let’s head back to the street and pick up the trail from there.”
Blackjaw and Slake hesitated. But the Defense Force soldiers had guns, so the finders followed. Mr. Grey’s eyes followed too, until they’d left the room. Then Mr. Grey stepped down from the empty plinth - only slightly less stiff than the held position - among the rows of statues. He went to find his friends.
Honeydew, Tom, and Mr. Grey reunited beside a dried garden of coral, back in the courtyard. The balconies were echoless now. Without looking at him, Tom handed Mr. Grey his violin.
Before any of the three spoke, a voice growled from behind a pillar. “For the last time; THE MUSEUMS CLOSED!”
They turned - not that surprised - to see the shark-bellied janitor. He fixed them in his obsidian eyes.
“We’re leaving now, sir,” said Mr. Grey. “Sorry to have bothered you.”
The janitor glared. Mr. Grey, Tom, and Honeydew stepped toward the exit. Honeydew said, “Let’s get back to the partisans. Maybe they were useful. Found us a guide.”
The three heard a sudden scraping of wood on stone. They spun round. The shark-bellied man dragged the handle of his crooked broom down the groove of a balustrade pillar. He stopped, laid the sweeping instrument on the floor, pulled a floppy, chicktail hat from where his robe bunched about the waist, and set it atop his head-fin.
“Need a guide?”
Museumtown shrank smaller and smaller as the partisans’ cowsowhorse-drawn carts rattled into the country. Above the city, The Thick and Sweaty Wind shaped her sunburned clouds into billowy words of farewell. Mr. Grey and Tom watched the city and the words dwindle. They sat together, alone at the back of the rearmost cart. Their legs dangled off the edge, passing through a broad field of cottonfruit which brushed clean their shoes. Tom swung his legs back and forth through the puffy, berry-bearing tufts. Mr. Grey held his legs still, and busied his hands winding the pocket ticker.
Tom fixed his eyes on the pale towers and crumbling walls of the city as it sank into the tassels. He spoke to Mr. Grey without looking at him. “Why bother tracking the time? That Sun Fish up there, it won’t rise or set.”
The ticker’s winding clicks paused. Mr. Grey set his hands on his lap. He looked sideways at Tom. Tom carried small bags beneath his steel eyes, and his thin silver hair looked rusted with sweat. But he held his bristled chin high. His robe’s cloud zeppelins rolled in the hot breeze.
Mr. Grey said, “I suppose it’s principle. And its a habit.”
Tom nodded.
From the front of the cart came the loud crack of a lash, followed by Honeydew’s voice. “This is intolerable. We’re crawling. Can’t these stupid animals go faster?” They heard another whip crack. The cowsowhorse moved steadily forward, at the expected mosey of an animal that is ⅓ horse, and ⅔ cowsow.
Tom asked, “Can I look at your ticker?”
Mr. Grey placed the device in Tom’s hand, then set his palms flat on his knees. The ticker seemed tiny in Tom’s palm. The big man held it up to his face; peered through the crystal glass; ran a finger along the smooth metal casing.
“Sometimes I’m sulky,” said Tom. He watched the ticker’s moving hands. “When friends have contrary tastes.”
Mr. Grey said, “That… means we’re friends, right?” Tom looked at Mr. Grey and nodded. They listened to the infrequent whip-cracks of Honeydew motivating their cowsowhorse, and the frequent clicks of Tom twisting the ticker’s key, and the constant churr of bellbugs in the cottonfruit sea. The field rolled beneath and around the pair. The tufts and berries whisked their dangling shoes.
Tom said, “Let’s doff our footwear,” Without waiting for a reply, Tom heaved his own legs up from the grass and undid his laces.
“Why would we do that?” asked Mr. Grey.
“To see how it feels; the cotton plants on your feet.”
“Won’t that be itchy?”
Tom glanced sideways at Mr. Grey. “That’s possible, yes.” He set his shoes to the side, set his palms on the wagon floor behind him, relaxed back, and lowered his feet into the rolling cottonfruit.
“Oh, very well then.” Mr. Grey brought his own knees up, undid his shoes, and stuck his feet in after Tom.
They sat quietly beside each other, a small grey man, and a big one in a robe like the sky; both shoeless, feet dangling off the cowsowhorse-drawn cart; passing through a hot cottonfruit field, glowing amber in the Sun Fish’s light; tiny clouds of cotton, tiny shiny berries, brushing between their toes.