Chapter 14 - A Tree by the Sea
“Easy does it Tom. Easy now, there’s no hurry. Untie bit by b-”
Tom panicked. He jerked the knot apart with a sharp show of old strength. He dropped like a pumpkin from where he hung in the tree, right on top of Mr. Grey and a pile of gathered leaves at Mr. Grey’s feet. Fortunately for Mr. Grey, his was a stiff posture, not prone to buckling, and Tom was lighter than ever. Mr. Grey took the impact without show. Unfortunate for Tom, he struck Mr. Grey’s statuary exterior before slumping onto the prepared leafy bed.
Mr. Grey helped Tom to his feet. He wiped leaves and soot from his friend’s zeppelin-robe. Tom coughed and said, “Sorry, I hate heights. I like my feet on the soil.”
“No trouble at all.” Mr. Grey stood back and looked Tom over. The once plump and strong malleteer had withered. His skin and robe hung loose over muscles looking surgically stripped from the bones. His eyes sank worse than Death’s. A layer of filth - soot, sweat, and his own sick fluids - covered Tom from thinning scalp to grimy toes. Mr. Grey could smell the odor on him too, the one Death had warned against. Not pungent, not stinking. A musky sweet smell, like the dry leaves piled under them.
Mr. Grey and Tom heard a distant pop. They looked up. Through the cracked-glass canopy of branches, they saw a signal flare shoot starlike through the night; arcing from the skillet which had shot them down. The flare flew away from them. The skillet followed it, further into the night, the stuttering dragon-engine fading like a battlefield tracer.
A moment later they heard a distant boom; their tea kettle striking ground.
Mr. Grey watched the frayed ropes of Tom’s parachute dance on the branches. He said, “This may be the best result. I think they’ve lost us.”
Tom nodded. “I’ll sit down for a moment.”
“All the moments that you want,” said Mr. Grey. Tom collapsed into the decaying leaves with a sigh. “I’ll go get our things.”
Mr. Grey walked past the dangling, carefully un-tied strings of his own parachute - and the two tiny craters where his feet had impacted - to a third parachute. This one held his violin coffin and Tom’s mallet. He retrieved these items and returned to Tom. Mr. Grey knelt down and said, “I have your handkerchief here. It’s a bit grubby.”
“No worries, thank you.” Tom took the dirty cloth. No sooner was it in his grasp that Tom blew a long spate of excoriating coughs into the fabric square.
“Now we can’t stay here all night. We should start walking. You need a checkup. There is the carriage castle - perhaps it’s nearby.”
Mr. Grey picked up his coffin and helped Tom upright. Tom wiped his mouth carefully with the handkerchief. He grabbed the mallet by its handle, but nearly tumbled trying to heft the barrel over his shoulder. Tom said, “I don’t think I can hold it. My arm’s stinging sore.”
“Oh that’s no problem. I’ll hold it and the coffin. In fact that works great - simpler to balance. Now put your arm over me. We’ll take it slowly.”
Tom didn’t immediately give his arm to Mr. Grey, but stood swaying in place, looking through the trees. Mr. Grey followed Tom’s eyes. He saw the same thick trunks he’d walked through for ages, stripped naked from The Old Wind’s ravishing. The soft wood, perhaps to better handle the Old Wind’s cold breezes until their leaves returned, now sported small coats of downy hair. Mr. Grey saw the same, dry leaf-and-needle-covered forest floor. Under the duff, twisting tree roots created long, lumpy hills, like inverse furrows left by a plow with a crooked share.
One feature of this particular tract of forest into which they’d fallen was the roughness of its terrain. Mr. Grey and Tom stood on the bank of a hill. Mr. Grey thought moving uphill too taxing a request of Tom. But downhill and away from them, the earth and trees were divided by long, narrow, zigzagging, curving, switchbacking ditches. The ditches ran through the forest floor like mortar between stones. The roots poked out over the banks, and the sparse moonlight left the bottoms of these long moats dark to Mr. Grey’s eyes.
The trunks grew sparser around this feature of the land. Mr. Grey could see a greater distance through the wood. He saw that the ditches ran closely packed for a short area. A larger area up close, reflected Mr. Grey, if they were to traverse it. Then, after a final curving line through the earth, the ditches stopped. They gave way to a tract of equally hazardous terrain, pitted by divots and shallow gouges, like a poxy face. Mr. Grey thought the landscape must have been some industrial development, before the woods reclaimed it. The dark, metal hulks of broken labor-swans lay across the land, squatting in ditches and craters, grown over with roots and covered in leaves.
Mr. Grey said, “I know it looks rough. But I’ll support you along.”
Tom coughed some, then spoke, his voice muffled by the handkerchief. “Could we rest on this hillside? It’s a comfy seat.”
“You need another doctor.”
“Not a drawn-out stay, resting with this scenic view. Just a few moments.”
Mr. Grey hesitated. Tom looked so worn. There couldn’t be harm in stopping to breathe. They had just parachuted from a crashing tea kettle balloon.
A roar shook the forest. A murder of crows above them on the hill - silent to that point - took flight from the branches. The oily cloud squawked and crooned as it soared through the moonlight toward the ditches. The ground beneath their feet juddered, a heavy quake that shook their leaf pile. Then another judder. And another. A second roar burst on their ears.
“Sounds like a dragon engine,” said Tom. He glanced up the hill from whence came the roar.
“I think that’s half-right. Dreamland’s got its own dragon.”
“Are you on good terms?”
“I’ve never met it. It’s a beast of ill repute. I think we should go.”
Tom nodded. He’d been covering his mouth with the handkerchief and Mr. Grey couldn’t see his expression. Tom wiped a final time, folded the cloth carefully, stuck it in his pocket, and threw his arm over Mr. Grey’s shoulder. With the quaking steps shaking the trees, and another thunderous roar vibrating overhead, they ambled down the shaking hillside toward the ditches.
At one point Mr. Grey looked back as he helped Tom stumble over a veiny root. He saw a larger shadow darkening the forested hillside where they’d stopped. Fortunately the pair had reached the edge of the ditches in good time. The deep furrows seemed almost to have snaked across the woodland ground to meet them halfway. Fortunately as well, they had arrived at the tapered end of one ditch. They could ease down a narrow, grassy slope to enter it. From this closer view Mr. Grey saw that these ruts in the earth were more like channels. Grass and roots had overgrown the edges, while the walls were sheer and - Mr. Grey thought - man-carved. He could see the bottom now, where the slope ended; uneven, but below the topsoil by twice a person’s height in places. Full of shadows and fallen foliage.
“Not unlike the one we jumped,” said Mr. Grey. “Back in Wine Medo.”
“This one’s much darker.” Tom looked down the leaf-strewn slope. “Long Faces might hide down there.”
“This ditch looks artificial, but seems abandoned. A good hiding spot.”
“Could we go around?”
Mr. Grey looked. Other long ditches ran to the left and right. He didn’t see another shallower slope to enter by. And just then they heard another primordial roar from behind. “I think we’d better chance it.”
The slope had a shallow grade, and thick roots ran across it acting like steps. With the violin coffin in one hand, Tom’s mallet in the other, and Tom himself leaning on a shoulder, Mr. Grey took the steps gently. The cracking sounds of the creature moving through the branches followed them down. The rooty overgrowth closed over their heads. The already-fragmented moon shining through the canopy dwindled to a few tiny diamonds of light, striking the grassy walls or leafy floor. After a descent that seemed to last forever, Mr. Grey and Tom finally reached the base of the channel. Their legs sunk halfway up the shin into piled needles and leaves. Mr. Grey felt sure that he had seen another shadow join to those of the roots just as they reached the bottom. He urged Tom forward, despite Tom’s renewed request for a break.
They limped along the narrow path. Every so often, the overhanging roots stretched further. The shadows they cast - Mr. Grey hoped the shadows were the roots’ - thickened on the grey and thinning heads. The two spoke little, for the snorting and stomping above them sounded always close. After a while walking this way Tom asked, in a low voice, “So how have you been?”
Mr. Grey paused for a shadow. The roots creaked above. He said, “Oh I’ve been the same. Dreamland’s a strange place.”
“Tell me about it.”
“Right away we met some ghosts. Wilson and Anna. A skittish couple, looking for a nicer home.”
“Never met a ghost myself. What do they look like?”
“Like watered down milk through glass.”
“That doesn’t sound fun.”
“They’re an okay pair. There was also a castle, riding a carriage. And a plant mansion - I’d like to forget that one - and a whole village, inside a stone nose. And Tom, Pots is in Dreamland.”
“Well-Witch Nesting-Inside-Pots? How’d she wind up here?”
“Dream juice is my guess. But she dwells in a tavern - cast out of iron.”
Tom grimaced. “That’s smart construction.”
“Once we’ve found you a doctor, and you’re healthier, we’ll go and see her.”
They came to a fork in the channel. A tangle of low hanging roots grew thickly across both paths. The barrier of roots, leaves and needles, and fallen limbs made the blockage hard to push through on either side. Mr. Grey saw a small gap between the roots and the earthen wall on the right, but they would have to pass through one at a time.
Tom saw the situation as well. He said, “You go through first with our gear. I’ll come through after.”
In a whisper Mr. Grey said, “What if the dragon heard us? What if it comes down?”
They waited a moment. The grunting and cracking of the beast moving through branches sounded - comparative to earlier - far away. Mr. Grey went reluctantly first. He got through with the violin and mallet, and with only a few scrapes from the rooty overgrowth. He turned around and motioned Tom to follow.
Tom struggled to pass through with his size. He said, “I was wondering: what happened to Honeydew? Did she come with you?”
Mr. Grey waited for Tom to pass through, and Tom had to focus on navigating the grasping roots. At last he arrived, gasping, on the other side. Mr. Grey caught him up on his shoulder again. He started them walking immediately. Tom, still breathing heavy, looked to Mr. Grey. Finally Mr. Grey answered, “She came to Dreamland. But we had crossed purposes. She went her own way.”
Tom nodded. “Is that why you’re down? Wait stop a moment,” said Tom with a gasp. After a few more he added, “Just let me search for my breath.”
Tom sat heavily, so that the crunchy bed of leaves came up to his chest. They’d not walked far; not from the start, and only a few paces from the rooty fork. Mr. Grey saw that they’d arrived at a hub of several ditches. The walls here spread farther apart, and the roots didn’t stretch across the whole ceiling. At the center of the hub, an ovular pool of moonlight shone upon a large cairn. Mr. Grey walked to examine it. He found that each stone in the cairn - and there were many above the thick leaf bed, not to speak of what lay below - bore a name. It was a memorial.
Another, deeper shadow moved above. Mr. Grey shuffled as noiselessly as he could through the crunching leaves. He laid his spine flat against the earthen wall, under the roots, beside Tom. Tom’s face flushed with an unfortunately-timed fit of coughing. He yanked the handkerchief from its pocket and stifled his sickness. They heard heavy breaths on the overhang of roots just above their heads. A clod of grassy earth dropped into the leaves at Tom’s feet.
The heavy breaths stopped. They held their own.
The huge creature moved away. They heard it cracking through the branches. They breathed again, and Tom dared to cough, but they kept still for many moments.
Tom repeated himself softly. “Is that why you’re down, Honeydew leaving? Is that why you seem sullen?”
Mr. Grey laid the coffin and mallet in the nearby leaves. He took a ninety-degree wall-sit next to Tom. He said, “That’s not my trouble. I’ve felt different lately. A man somehow changed.”
“Did your ticker break again?”
“Yes, but that’s not it. I feel… sadder, and wiser. Since before Dreamland. Back in Glory Days, after you and I parted.”
Tom waved a dismissive hand. “All friends have some arguments.”
“It was after that. Did rumor reach you? Of Jodee’s acropolis, and the Defense Force, and what happened there?”
“I heard of a massacre.”
“It’s because I got involved. The Defense Force laws, the partisans’ cause. I gave the lure to Ordus. Helped beat Candlehead. I stood on a side, and the other one suffered. I made a mistake.”
Tom sat and breathed, quiet and heavy. The expression on his face looked thoughtful, and perhaps uncomfortable.
When they heard the beast’s movement farther off, Mr. Grey said, “We should start walking again.”
Tom rose. He patted Mr. Grey twice on the head and gave a sympathetic smile. Then his face twisted. He winced and hacked into his handkerchief once more. When Tom opened his eyes, they settled - wet and soft with pain-made tears - on the cairn in the moonlight pool. He said, “This is a nice scene. Not a bad spot for a rest. We could stay longer.”
Mr. Grey picked up their gear from the leaves, nudged his shoulder under Tom’s arm, and started them limping down a random trench in the hub. He said, “That beast might return. And the faster the travel, the fewer travails.”
Tom grumbled under his breath as they walked the gloomy corridor. “You’re acting like Ms. Maysey; all anxiety. That beast went away.”
Mr. Grey bumped against a root hidden in the high-piled leaves. He helped Tom carefully across. “The dragon might track by scent.”
Tom narrowed his eyes in a show of old indignance. “Which is dangerous, because?”
“Well, you’ve got that prison smell. It’s easy to track.”
“You’d also have the odor. You’re trackable too.”
“That’s all the same though, we still have to keep going.”
Tom huffed and said no more. They traveled the trench in silence. Tom wore an expression of annoyance. Mr. Grey wore one of stoicism. Both carried joy for the company in their hearts.
“What we need is some water,” said Mr. Grey after a time. He stopped by a small hollow in the ditch wall. He and Tom looked inside. Mr. Grey guessed it had once been a field barracks. A row of motheaten, four-poster cots stood against the far side, half-crumbling into the blown-in sheddings of the forest. Shelves and tables lined the rough earth walls in crooked columns. On these were left an assortment of piled weapons and armor: old suits of bouncer Kevlar, rusting chainmail, broken clubs, broken mallets, broken guns. All lying, half-buried, in the crumbling, fallen leaves.
“No water in here,” said Mr. Grey.
Tom eyed the beds. “A dingy, dreary setting. But not bad for rest.”
Mr. Grey gently but firmly moved Tom away from the door, and further along the trench.
Tom’s breathing became harder and harder as they walked. He was forced to take many stops and lean against the walls or low-hanging roots. Mr. Grey kept shifting under Tom’s arm as though uncomfortable. Tom said, “Is my load trouble for you?”
“Your arm’s a bit cold. Here, why don’t you wear my shawl,” Mr. Grey wrapped his shawl around Tom’s neck, and tried to make it look nice. He led Tom on, but after a moment said, “Oh, that’s not the thing. Tom, what I said earlier; about decisions- Jodee’s made a bunch.”
“Did you… ever… find Jodee,” asked Tom between gasps.
“No, I’m still searching. A lot of her decisions, they brought misfortune.”
“Like the… Wine Medo flowers.”
“Like that exactly. But she’s helped a few people. Made them happier. Tom, I’m just unsure. What to do about Jodee. If she’s even wrong.”
Tom was too busy gasping to respond. But Mr. Grey thought their effort worth the exertion. They’d risen to the top of another slope, leading out of the narrow earth channels. Mr. Grey poked his head up. He saw the hairy trunks of soft wood, and the long field of ditches they’d crossed. He did not see any dragons. He poked his head up further and brought Tom with him.
Mr. Grey recognized their location.
“Now that’s good fortune,” said Mr. Grey. “We’ve found some water.”
They’d arrived at the edge of The Little Sea of Dreams, at the exact same spot Mr. Grey and Honeydew had taken off from ages ago. There was the hoary tree, there the winding roots, there the blooming chrysanthemums. Even the kettle was there, in the same place on the ivory beach, except this one had freshly crashed.
Mr. Grey led Tom toward the water. He hoped to wash the oven fumes off their bodies. When they reached the flower field beneath the hoary tree’s skinny limbs, Tom collapsed. Mr. Grey’s sick friend shook his head. He smiled as he looked over the flowers.
“I’m glad we pressed on,” said Tom. “This is the finest sight yet.”
The lambent, full moon fell at an angle, slipping past the creaking skeleton of branches above, to land directly on Tom’s face. Illness left its deep tracks over Tom’s body. It left his cheeks hollow, his eyes dark, his once-ruddy forehead and nose, pallid. But the moon, perhaps in leniency to Mr. Grey, lent her luster to Tom’s hollow face. She gave his steely eyes, especially, a polished shine, made his face glow. Next to the chrysanthemum blooms - growing like bulbs of dusk and dawn - Tom’s tranquil face seemed, itself, like an albino flower.
A breath rasped its way into Tom’s lungs and made his pale lips quiver. Mr. Grey winced. Tom tore at his throat with wheezing, whistling coughs as he released the held air. Mr. Grey brought the handkerchief to Tom’s face. After a moment of coughing, Tom reached a hand up and took the cloth from Mr. Grey’s. He said, “Absolutely wonderful; this old tree and lake, this field of flowers.”
Mr. Grey noticed Tom trying to quickly stuff the handkerchief into a dirty zeppelin-pocket of his robe. Gently, Mr. Grey reached a hand to stop Tom’s. Tom let Mr. Grey unfold his fingers. The wrinkled square of fabric showed, all across its surface, stains. Tiny rubies, held in the stitches.
Tom breathed in.
A tock passed on Mr. Grey’s ticker.
Mr. Grey stared at the handkerchief.
A second tock.
Mr. Grey looked sharply into Tom’s eyes.
A third tock… and Tom breathed out. He smiled at Mr. Grey.
Mr. Grey looked away from Tom, out at where their kettle had crashed on the ivory sand. He said, “The balloon’s been popped, but the engine might still go. We could try sailing. Or even better, build some kind of wheel or sled. We’ll drive through the woods, and-”
“Stop now Mr. Grey,” said Tom.
Mr. Grey looked back at Tom. His matte, grey eyes met Tom’s shiny, steely ones. For a long moment they held this look. They read and understood each other.
Mr. Grey blinked quickly. He tightened his jaw and tilted his neck back. He stared up, into the rattling branches of the tree. Meanwhile Tom settled against the trunk. He adopted a mock-scolding voice. “Enough with rushing. You force me to trip on roots, and wade through the leaves. Let me rest my feet.”
Mr. Grey took a fortifying breath. He brought his eyes back from the night sky and the twisted canopy. He saw Tom shifting from left to right against the hairy trunk, unable to get comfy because of a burly growth on the wood. Mr. Grey said, “Here Tom, move out a little.” He helped Tom slide away from the tree trunk, until he could stretch fully on the soft bed of flowers and leaves between two roots. Mr. Grey piled his anchor shawl and violin coffin behind Tom’s head for a pillow.
While he got Tom settled Mr. Grey spoke on, in an unsteady voice. “You wouldn’t be so worn out, but for that dragon.”
“Does it command the faeries?” asked Tom sleepily. He laid his head down against the shawl.
“It chased us through the trenches. You wore yourself out, because it pursued.”
“These are its woods after all. We’re the intruders.”
“I’m just sorry Tom.”
“What’s to be sorry about?” asked Tom lightly. He choked down a breath.
“I’ve made lots of bad choices; back in Glory Days, now here in Dreamland. The worst was making you leave.”
Tom exhaled slowly.
Mr. Grey felt a tock thud by on his ticker.
“Tom, Tom I’m sorry.”
A second tock went by. Mr. Grey reached a hand to Tom’s face, but Tom took another hard breath. He averted his steely eyes and said, “Why be so sorry? I’m the one who let you down.”
“Let me down, you could not, sir.”
“I did let you down. I’m your chosen defender, who didn’t defend. You’ve been left alone, forced to make it by yourself.”
“We’ve been over that,” said Mr. Grey. He paused to breathe, then spoke on. “You’ve helped more than anyone. This whole vacation, you got me walking. Traveling from place to place. A failed adventure, without your guidance.”
Tom smiled. He said nothing. He closed his eyes and breathed. Slow and weak, in and out. Mr. Grey couldn’t watch long. He looked away again, to the mirror-glass of The Tiny Sea. He said suddenly, “What about a fish contract, like with Ms. Maysey? We could-”
“No seabeast dealings,” said Tom. He fixed his narrowed, steely eyes on Mr. Grey.
Mr. Grey met his gaze. “Tom, it was just half my time. Not measurable, when you think of it. I’d make…” Mr. Grey stopped, seeing Tom swaying his head side-to-side against the anchor shawl.
“No more fish contracts,” said Tom firmly. “You haven’t thought it all out. Even Honeydew, she’d have said not to.”
“Why would she say no?”
“Terrible fractions,” said Tom. Mr. Grey pursed his lips and looked back at the sea. Tom smiled and closed his eyes. Another breath slipped in and out.
A tock passed.
Around the pair, the chrysanthemums filled the air with a deep, musky perfume.
A tock passed. Mr. Grey suddenly shot a hand into his pocket and yanked the broken-glass ticker out. He set it aside and covered it with leaves. He looked back at Tom, just in time to see him take another breath. A weak breath, a shallow breath. But another one.
Tom kept smiling all the while. The firmament gave both eyes and smile a shine of pearl. Tom said, “Mr. Grey, I’ve been thinking.”
“What were you thinking of, Tom?”
“About your choices. How you said they were wrong ones… I’m not sure that’s so. It isn’t your place, saying what’s ‘right’ or what’s ‘wrong’. It’s not mine either… Ah, but I’m preaching. I’ve told you these things before.”
“I’d love to hear them again.”
“All I think is this: Even if you made mistakes… and from your choices, came consequences… better to choose in error, than not choose at all… that’s all existence; looking at the things you’ve learned, and taking action.”
Mr. Grey slumped against a root of the old tree. He looked at Tom, his cheek against his palm. Defeated. “Oh Tom, that’s so kind. But if I hadn’t chosen - kicked you from the group - we could have talked more. Could have traveled together.”
“My dear Mr. Grey… We’ve wandered much together, into lost cities, many fields and streams, over ditches and through woods… We’ve trusted fortune, through long days and nights… It’s a far better twilight, under a broad sky - like this one tonight, with bright stars and moon! - than sitting in rooms alone. Here we have no cares, and happier dreams…
“Mr. Grey, are you still there?”
“Yes, I’m still here Tom.”
“We’re friends, Mr. Grey?”
“The very best of good friends.”
“Let’s clasp hands on it… Much better, yours feels warmer… Keep holding… I’ll… rest…”
Under the leaves, the broken ticker rolled on, as Mr. Grey cried.
“Anything you want, my friend.”
Mr. Grey felt a tremble. The root on which he leaned stole a vibration from the earth, sent it up his arm, into his cheek. Mr. Grey opened his eyes. A second tremble. Mr. Grey saw the chrysanthemums - the dusk and dawn bulbs beside Tom’s marble face - shiver. He heard branches crack in the treeline behind him, and a loud snort. The air swam with sudden humidity in a meat breath miasma.
Mr. Grey sat up. He carefully pulled the violin coffin from behind Tom’s, then laid his friend’s head back on the shawl. Two more shudders and another snort followed. Mr. Grey put his fingers through fast mechanics; unbuckled his coffin, drawing his fiddle, tuning the pegs. He stood and turned.
The dragon - not an engine, but a real, bat-winged, garnet-scaled, spike-tailed, four-legged monster - towered near where Mr. Grey stood under the hoary tree’s branches. The monster dwarfed him. Its long neck rose above the treeline as it raised its swan-cab-sized head. It opened its jaw to reveal bucketfuls of teeth glimmering under the full moon.
The dragon spoke in a voice like cracking stones. “Good evening.”
Mr. Grey, with no outer show of his inner fear, said, “Good evening. My name’s Mr. Grey, Mr…?”
“Ms. Dragon.”
“Good evening, Ms. Dragon.”
“Stranger, I would have smelled you from the future. A pungent odor rises from that corpse.” The dragon spoke in a loud, snorting, matter-of-fact tone. Her mouth moved such that she seemed to chew the words she spoke; as though motivating her own speech to greater heights of fear-mongery.
“I’m sor- We’ve just come. Got out of the zeppelin.” Mr. Grey found it difficult to organize his thoughts. His face looked dark and forlorn, like that of a carved bust left on a porch to mottle with the weather. He did, however, position himself among the roots and flowers so that his tiny, statuary shape stood between the dragon and Tom.
“Stranger, you will use the proper address.”
“Pardon, Ms. Dragon.”
“Stranger, I know you arrived from the oven. That excuse is unacceptable.”
The dragon took a measured breath in. It set its feet in a rigid posture, folded its wings behind its back, and stared at Mr. Grey. Only after assuming this position did it let out the held breath; again, measured. When it did exhale the air glowed, and washed Mr. Grey once more in meat-stink. The dragon went on, “Stranger, the air you are despoiling with your scent is under the jurisdiction of-” the dragon paused and took a careful cadence-step forward; the flowers shook, the old tree rattled. “-me. I decide who can and cannot produce smells of your pungency outside of the faerie prison.”
“You hunt down foreign smells, Ms. Dragon?”
“That is what I said, stranger.”
A thought struck Mr. Grey. “Have you by any chance met a girl named Jodee, Ms. Dragon?”
“Stranger, I am not finished.” The dragon shuddered the earth with another forward step. “You and your companion arrived in Dreamland because your odors are dangerous to your fellow Odormoat citizens. I know this because I do not smell a visa on your person.”
“That’s not entirely accurate. We came with visas originally, but-”
“I was not asking a question, stranger,” The dragon tried marching another careful, threatening, thundering footstep forward. As she took this latest move, Mr. Grey heard a crackle in the treeline behind her. The dragon stopped short. Its spiny tail had been caught in the Dreamland’s tangled canopy.
The dragon let out one warm, heavy, meaty breath, twisted her tail loose, and completed her step. She resumed. “After arriving in Dreamland, your odor turned feral. You were detained by the faeries, and quarantined within the oven. After the oven, your next relocation should have been to non-existence, or - by exception - the Tiny Sea of Dreams. Stranger, explain to me why you deviated from established procedures.”
Mr. Grey - still holding his violin, still standing between the dragon and Tom - said, “We didn’t mean to break any laws, Ms. Dragon.”
“Stranger, what you meant to do is irrelevant. I will devour your companion. You will return to the oven.”
“No, Ms. Dragon. Sorry - or not quite ‘sorry’, per se - but no. I’ll wash Tom and myself in this Little Sea. But you can’t have him.”
“STRANGER,” said the dragon with a tonal, vibrating huff. She raised her neck higher yet, with her shoulders squared, and her coat of scales glinted like torches under the moon. Less impressive, however, was her next threatening footstep. The treeline behind her caught the tail once more, and the dragon paused to extract it. “I did not make a request. I gave a command. You stated that your given name is Mr. Grey.”
“I did, Ms. Dragon.”
“Mr. Grey, I have heard your name. Two finders, given the names of Blackjaw and Slake, say that you obey King’s Law.”
“That’s true, Ms. Dragon. But if you’re suggesting that we’ve broken the laws, I’d point out that - I believe - the King’s doesn’t always apply in Dreamland.”
“Mr. Grey, I am not concerned with what you believe. I serve Dreamland, in accordance with Queen’s Law. You have broken Queen’s Law, Mr. Grey. You have broken King’s Law, Mr. Grey. My objectives are protecting the woods, upholding the Odormoats standards, and enforcing the law. If you threaten these elements with your odor, I will devour you also, Mr. Grey.”
Mr. Grey nestled his chin against the violin’s shoulder-rest. He reached for his treasure purse, but stopped short. Instead he simply held the bow to the strings. Despite the loud rattle of the old tree above, and the dragon’s heaving, meaty breaths at his ears, he could hear the racing of his heart. But Mr. Grey stood stiff. He wore a worn, stoic expression. He watched the looming, glittering, monstrous dragon; would that she’d challenged him to a staring match! He said, “Be that as it may, you can’t have him.”
The dragon snorted. She crouched suddenly down with her forelegs and raised her haunches. The unfurling of her boat-sail wings sent dry leaves scuttering in waves. Mr. Grey brought his bow to the strings and played the fastest notes he could while holding a tune. The dragon dug deep gouges through the soil as she started to pounce. Mr. Grey closed his eyes and fiddled blind.
He felt a whoosh of air… but nothing else. He thought, for a moment, he’d been swallowed at one bite. Like a stone. But when Mr. Grey opened his eyes, he stopped playing. The dragon had only sprung a little forward. She’d come up short. Mr. grey asked politely, “Is it the trees again?”
The dragon pointed with her snout in a hunting-dog way, over his shoulder. Mr. Grey had no desire to show the creature his back. But he recognized that nothing he did - not the silliest song - could prevent his being devoured if that was the dragon’s wish. He turned and looked at the sea.
Between the full moon’s luster and its reflection on the Little Sea of Dreams, Death’s golden schooner berthed on the strip of ivory sand. The widow’s-veil sails fluttered in the dragon’s last breath. On the beach before the boat, Death stood smoking. Standing beside him, Ms. Maysey made anxious puffs of her own pipe. Soot from the Dutch oven cannons coated her from the hem of her saddle robe to the mice in her hair. She looked like a nervous chimney sweep, with beady jet gemstones decorating the bristles.
Ms. Maysey and Death crossed the field of roots and flowers to Mr. Grey and Tom. Death plucked his cigarette and made a motion to toss it aside. He reconsidered after a glance at the scene. He swallowed the butt instead. Since Death’s arrival seemed to give the dragon pause, Mr. Grey lowered his violin. He walked unconsciously to stand over Tom’s head, and looked upon the peaceful face of his friend.
Death moved over as well. He stood at Tom’s feet. Death and Mr. Grey looked at each other at the same moment. They shared a gaze; Mr. Grey’s tired, stone expression meeting the sunken paleness of Death. They spoke not a word; and Ms. Maysey, and the dragon too, stood by wordlessly; and in the field around them, the chrysanthemums swayed in the silken breeze; and the branches of the hoary tree lamented.
Death shifted to the side and stooped. He lifted Tom in his skinny hands, as light as a cloth bolt. The sky and zeppelins of Tom’s robe draped across Death’s arms. He turned and walked through the flowers and roots, toward the porcelain sand and his schooner of gold.
Ms. Maysey - of all people - broke the silence. “Well perhaps it’s not my place. But… such a kind fellow. Is this right?”
Death, still silent, looked back at Mr. Grey. Mr. Grey stared. Finally he asked, “Are there flowers on your island?”
Death said, “Many flowers. Many kinds.”
Mr. Grey looked at Ms. Maysey. “I think it’s right.” He bent and picked up Tom’s mallet. Mr. Grey walked over and set the mallet in Death’s arms, beside his friend. He gave Tom’s face a last look; he gave Tom’s hand a last squeeze; he stepped back.
Death stalked away from the hoary tree with twisted roots. He strode between the chrysanthemums, and carried Tom aboard his golden schooner. The ship moved with not a ripple in either gauzy sails or mirror water.
Death carried Tom, gently, quietly, across The Little Sea of Dreams.
Ms. Maysey and Mr. Grey stood beside one another, and watched until Death vanished into the night. Then Ms. Maysey noticed the dragon. Her mice let out a choral squeak, while Maysey herself sucked in a startled breath of tobacco. Caught in a coughing fit, she tugged wordlessly on Mr. Grey’s sleeve and pointed at the dragon.
Mr. Grey said, “I know, Ms. Maysey.” He twisted stiffly to face the beast. It rose like a whale from the sea, back to its full, towering majesty. Its scales burned under the full moon. It opened its mouth to speak, and the rows-upon-rows of serrated teeth also shone by the bright orb in the night sky.
But then a cloud passed over the moon. The dragon lost its luster. The woods darkened to starlight alone. The sudden pitch struck Mr. Grey and Ms. Maysey temporarily blind. Their eyes adjusted slowly. As they waited, they heard cracking and popping sounds from where the dragon had been. Not like the sounds of movement through branches and wood, but like limb-tearing and bone-snapping. Ms. Maysey clutched at the stiff grey fabric of Mr. Grey’s sleeve.
When their eyes widened enough for the dimmer stars to light the scene, they no longer saw a dragon. In its place across the rooty field there stood a woman. She stood almost as tall as Death, with a posture almost as stiff as Mr. Grey’s. When she stepped toward them her feet moved in metered rhythm. The lower half of her cardigan robe - an article of royal threading, depicting glowing-hot crowns falling like snowflakes in a fiery tempest - swished with each marching step. The roots and leaves twisted back from her feet to give her free passage.
Mr. Grey hadn’t moved when the woman reached the pair. Ms. Maysey only quivered. The woman carried in one hand at her side, a humongous, double-bladed battleaxe. Now she planted it pommel-first into the leaves, set the handle perfectly perpendicular to the ground, rested a pair of manicured hands on the head, and stared at Mr. Grey without blinking.
Mr. Grey stared back. He, of course, won.
The woman said, “Mr. Grey, who is this person?” she blinked and looked at Ms. Maysey.
Mr. Grey said, “This is Ms. Maysey, Ms. Dragon.” He had recognized the accent and tone of the woman’s voice, though the timbre changed. He correctly guessed her to be the dragon.
Ms. Maysey gave a soundless hello. The woman looked back at Mr. Grey. “Mr. Grey, you will address me as Ms. Dragon when I am transformed under the moon. When I am not transformed, you will use ‘Your Grace’.”
“Yes, Your Grace,” said Mr. Grey.
“Mr. Grey, you have realized that I am also the queen?”
“Yes, Your Grace.”
“H-h-honored to m-meet you, Your G-G-Grace,” squeaked Ms. Maysey.
The queen fixed her eyes on Mr. Grey. She said, “Mr. Grey, you have been impertinent and disobedient in speech. Your actions, however, show some merit. I am going to grant you clemency. This time. You and this stranger, Ms. Maysey, will accompany me to my palace. You will bathe and remove your odor when we arrive.”
“Thank you, your grace.”
“Mr. Grey, I am not finished. After you have cleaned yourselves, you will meet with Jodee Coats. I am holding her there as well. Do you understand these particulars, Mr. Grey?”
“I… yes, Your Grace. Thank you, Your Grace.”
The queen, without further preamble, took out a golden horn. She blew a long note. Above the treeline there appeared a golden loaf-pan-balloon. The aircraft descended before the three. They boarded, and prepared for flight to the queen of Dreamland’s Palace, and a meeting with Jodee Coats.