Chapter 16 - Homerun
With a forward shunt of her battleaxe, the queen toppled a carefully built house of telecards. These cards - stone rectangles carved into likeness of jesters, counts, viscounts, dukes, earls, etc. - fell with thunder. The pristine house collapsed on the primeval, flat, slate slab on which it had been built.
The queen settled her long-handled axe across her shoulders. She about-faced to Jodee, Ms. Maysey, and Mr. Grey, and spoke. “Guests, your conductor will arrive shortly. Be pleased to make yourselves presentable.”
Mr. Grey and Ms. Maysey dusted already-clean sleeves and chests. Jodee just folded her arms. Mr. Grey looked in the direction of the woods. He raised his voice to an appropriate outside-volume and said, “Wind, you can rejoin.”
Jodee set her alwayslush on the grass and put her hands on her hips. “Aw gee, why’d you call her. You couldn’t wait until we’d gone?”
“The queen told her she could return after the telecard message.”
“She’s such a bitter-” Before Jodee finished the Old Wind came flying in; over the barren trees surrounding the high hill; through the ring of standing stones jutting around its crest, like the long canines of some huge, buried lamprey fossil; onto the grassy crest, where she coldly fluttered.
“Wicked cliquers!” said The Wind. “What took so long?”
The queen wasn’t apologizing. Mr. Grey did so for the group.
Jodee tilted her head back and followed the curve of the large, round, lumpy stone next to which they stood. It sat on the exact top of the hill, in the exact middle of the menhir ring, in a divet of the grass. It looked somehow statelier from its lonely, dominating position; as though it earned a reputation from having reached that summit and stood the tests of Wind and Time; like some Sisyphean stone finally placed in honor atop its hill.
Jodee said, “What’s this stone’s rub? Some enchantment compartment inside? Or is there a riddle to crack? Or, do we have to run on top with our stuff while it thunders downhill, and we magically arrive in Starharbor?”
“Ms. Coats,” said the queen, “this is not a stone. This is a boulder.”
“Okay?”
“This is not a toy. When the boulder begins moving, it does not ‘roll’. It travels very, very fast.”
Ms. Maysey darted a glance at the boulder, making her mouse-curls bounce. She said, “Not too fast, I hope?”
“Ms. Maysey, I am positive that the boulder is safe. I am not, however, one hundred percent sure. I have never ridden the boulder myself.”
The queen’s statement struck a glancing blow on Mr. Grey’s mind. He took no notice of her statement’s main thrust - the safety of boulder travel - but instead thought suddenly of Honeydew. He said, “Pardon me, Your Grace,” The queen turned on him. “The thing is, I came here with someone else. Her name’s Honeydew.”
“I forgot about her,” said Ms. Maysey.
“And, the thing is,” Mr. Grey went on, “she’s on this visa too. See her name scrawl there? We had a falling-out. Obviously she’s not here. But it seems unmannerly, you know, leaving her.”
The queen faced Mr. Grey silently, her battleaxe thrown across her shoulders, her hands on the long handle, with the double-blades glinting in the moonlight. Mr. Grey said nothing immediately. He couldn’t in good conscience drop the matter. He just hadn’t yet worked up the nerve to ask the favor of the queen. Mr. Grey turned to the forest.
From their high perch on this stone-ringed mound, Dreamland’s soft-wooded, unclad trees stretched away in all directions. Mr. Grey had hoped to glimpse the tall, crooked tower where he’d split with Honeydew. But a cold, pale mist crept over the woods. It slid between the trunks and rolled over the canopy. At a distance, the woods vanished into a foggy sea; like the bubble surrounding The Lost City in Glory Days. On top of that, the moonlight seemed to grow fainter and fainter with each moment. Farther vision gave way to darkness tock-by-tock.
Still without looking at the queen Mr. Grey said, “We parted at an old tower full of firbolg skeletons. You could maybe see the tower from this hill. Except for the fog.”
“Mr. Grey,” said the queen. She drew his eyes to her face with a powerful, irresistible vocal authority. “I may shed light on the tale you have told. There is one tower within my domain of Dreamland, where the bones of firbolgs I defeated in conquest lie. Are you, Mr. Grey, certain the bones you saw were firbolg bones?”
“They were firbolg bones, your grace,” said Mr. Grey.
“Then the tower in your story and this tower are the same. I have received reports of a new resident in the tower. My reports describe a ‘probability Wisdom’, wearing a robe of golden lily flowers with eyes at their centers, and real eyes like an oil field. Does this description match, Mr. Grey?”
“That’s Honeydew, your grace.”
“Then I inform you, Mr. Grey, that this ‘Honeydew’ plans on long-term residence in the tower. She is throwing what have been termed ‘Stone Stilt House Parties’ within. These parties are described in my reports as ‘Bewitching’.”
“That sounds like her, your grace.”
“I will accommodate her long-term residence if you wish it, Mr. Grey.”
Mr. Grey ground a heel in the grass. He looked to Ms. Maysey, then to Jodee. Both shrugged. He turned back to the queen. “Thank you, Your Grace. If she wants to stay in Dreamland, it’s not my wish or my place to stop her.”
The queen nodded. She glanced at the moon. Then at the telecards. A royal frown graced her face. She said, “Guests, your conductor is late. I apologize for the disrespect of your time.”
Pots, who’d come to see - or better, to hear - Mr. Grey off, suddenly reverse-echoed, “Speaking of parties, a crying shame you missed mine. A great song and dance.”
Mr. Grey ran a thumb over his ticker’s cracked surface. “I am sorry, Pots. I’ll visit you, I promise. If that’s permitted?” he asked, with another glance at the queen.
“I will consider further quests to Dreamland, Mr. Grey,” said the queen without taking her glare off the darkening moon.
Mr. Grey turned back to Pots. “Then we’ll meet again. We will fiddle together, when next I drop by.”
Pots groped blindly forth until her wrinkled palms touched Mr. Grey’s stony arm. She wrapped the statue in a warm hug which Mr. Grey returned.
The Old Wind chased the warmth off. She brought a chilly current up the hill, rolled it through the grass, and threw it up their ankles. She said, “Will you be much longer stirring up the high air on my high hill?”
“Old Wind, your high hill?” asked the queen.
“Alas, I meant-”
“Old Wind, you are speaking coldly. My cardigan robe is not sufficient to stave your chill. Stop blowing.”
The Wind grumbled sideways where only a wave of nearby grass caught her words. “No need to be curt.” But she did stop at the queen’s command.
Pots said, “Hey there you Old Wind, want to accompany me? Back to my tavern?”
The Wind fluttered undecidedly over the slab where the telecards were; the chiseled stone tablets shifted. She said, “If you need a guide… But no cursing or enchants. It makes my eyes cry.”
Despite griping, the others heard pleasure in The Old Wind’s voice at having been invited. She flurried ahead of Pots down the hill. Pots waved a last, sightless farewell to all. Then she descended the slope after the Wind, past the ring of standing stones, into the treeline, her ears bouncing and flapping all the way. The Old Wind blew a path through the icy forest mist so that it didn’t cling to Pots’ skin. Soon The Old Wind and Pots vanished into the marshlike prospect of pale fog, skeleton trees, and deepening dark.
Mr. Grey watched their exit. He said, “The Dreamland firmament is darker now than I’ve ever seen.”
The queen said, “Guests, my conductor shames himself.”
“We haven’t waited long, your grace.”
“Mr. Grey, it is neither acceptable to be tardy, nor betimes. If this conductor were beholden to my law, he would be on time, every time.”
“I agree, your grace. I only mean we don’t take offense.” The queen ignored him. She bored into the fallen telecards on the stone slate with her eyes and shifted the axe on her shoulders; as if holding the cards accountable, and threatening destruction if their conductor shouldn’t show soon.
Ms. Maysey said, “Mr. Grey, what do you think of these reforms? Will it be easy returning to the Justice Center swing?”
“I couldn’t say, Ms. Maysey.” Mr. Grey looked pointedly off into the trees. He brought his hand to his brow in a show of searching for the conductor.
“I hope they don’t affect my regular sabbaticals.”
“They wouldn’t touch the sabbatical policy. Those are a necessity for you.”
“Yes. Although I do wish I’d done something in my time off. Whenever an arduous task looms in front of me, I just get so dizzy.”
“You broke into and out of an oven prison. And you fought in a balloon pan against-” Mr. Grey caught himself and glanced at the queen. The conductor’s tardiness had her preoccupied. She hadn’t noticed his words, or perhaps didn’t care.
“I suppose you’re right,” said Ms. Maysey after some consideration. She puffed her pipe with an air of satisfaction.
Jodee set her alwayslush sapling in the crook of an elbow and eyed Mr. Grey. “So you’re not one of whatever ‘inner-circle’ picks these reforms. What are they?”
Mr. Grey checked his ticker again. “To tell you the truth, I don’t know.”
“Isn’t that swell. You ‘don’t know’ a lot of things.”
“My boss only hinted before I left. Ms. Maysey, do you know?”
Ms. Maysey shook her head. “Only that they’d be waiting when I returned in better health.”
Jodee said, “First this guy drags me home. He says things’ll be better. Then he backtracks. He tells me he’s got no clue what’s waiting at home. This no-good, back-shouldering-”
“Ms. Coats I promise you, no matter the condition of the department when we return, I’ll try to better it.”
Jodee huffed. “That’s a beginning.”
Mr. Grey let his eyes rest on their small pile of suitcases and his violin coffin. He said, “Now do we have absolutely everything? It wouldn’t be easy retrieving a bag left behind.”
Mr. Grey pulled out his ticker, just to confirm its being on his person. Jodee dropped her alwayslush with a hollow, plastic thud. She sprung. She snatched the ticker from him in a flash and stuffed it behind a smokestack of her engine-robe. She said, “You get this back when we’re home. Stop antsing.” She followed this order by tapping her foot, crossing her arms, glancing at the vanishing moon, and scanning the treeline for their conductor.
“Hey, what about those two finder-ey fellows?” asked Ms. Maysey in a mushroom of lung smoke. “The ones who followed us since Glory Days? Weren’t they at the feast?”
“Ms. Maysey, they will remain in Dreamland,” said the queen, without giving the telecards a rest from her grimace. “I have decided they are suited to my moonlit domain.”
Mr. Grey sighed and said, “Your grace, not that I disagree, but is that strictly legal? You’re letting us leave. We’re Starharbor natives.”
The queen turned slowly to settle her hard eyes on Mr. Grey, like some huge tree twisting in the Wind’s fury. “Mr. Grey, are you questioning a queen’s proclamation? Do you declare yourself an outlaw?”
“N-no, your grace.”
“Serves ‘em right,” said Jodee. “They seemed a pair of lickspittles.”
The queen marched to the slate table. She pulled the battleaxe off her shoulders and prodded a stone-card with the blade. “Guests, the information I entered was correct,” she said. “I begin to wonder if the conductor received my message.”
Mr. Grey saw the queen’s wrath mounting, and glanced at the sky. He didn’t see any clouds, but the moon waned almost new. He decided he didn’t want to be near this queen in a cross mood, dragon or not. He said, “Your grace, how are the McDourrs since the feast?”
“They are settling, Mr. Grey. They haunt the palace library. They make the reed scrolls flutter and the firefly lamps flicker, when no one is there.”
“Do you think they’ll stay permanently?”
“Permanently?”
“Permanently, your grace?”
“I do not know, Mr. Grey. If they choose to, the palace has child care facilities. There are activities and objects available for ‘Play’.”
“I wonder, can ghosts even have-”
Jodee interrupted Mr. Grey’s ponder by stomping suddenly over to the queen. She marched to the stone slate, planted the alwayslush at her feet, crossed her arms, and stared up at the towering monarch with gleaming eyes. She said, “Before I go, promise to make your oven-sky-prison humane.”
The queen set her axe-threatening stare and posture against Jodee’s arm-crossed petulance. “Ms. Coats, are you giving orders to a monarch?”
Jodee’s lower lip trembled - she was still a kid, Mr. Grey remembered - but she tightened her jaw and bit. “Yes I am! It’s not right. Shutting folks in an oven box.”
“Ms. Coats, you are aware that I am, in fact, a dragon?”
“Not right now you aren’t,” said Jodee with a skyward glance. The queen and Jodee watched each other. Mr. Grey and Ms. Maysey watched both. Mr. Grey saw the queen’s axe shift; the perfect position for a swing, he thought. He opened his mouth to interject.
But at that moment, the moon winked completely from the sky. The hilltop plunged into the deepest, inkiest night Mr. Grey had ever known, in Dreamland or elsewhere. Even the stars fled. The four fell silent. Without The Old Wind to stir the air, the hilltop hush turned to that of a deep world cave, with a chill like condensation on frosted glass.
Then; a brightness. A small separation of forest from sky with a wedge of blush, cracking open the inky void like an egg. Mr. Grey watched and waited. The sky burned. The frigid mist which had slithered into the trees burned, caught aflame by rosy fingers of light; like a heedless young boy’s gloveless hands running through snow.
As a blinding splinter, dawn rose.
It was a cool sun, almost a sapphire. But a sun - the sun - nevertheless. The queen watched it rise. She said, “The late arrival is explained,” she pointed her axe at dawn. “That is the eastern horizon; it must be the end of an eon. I dialed the western horizon’s home with the telecards. I- I expect that was awkward.”
“I didn’t think the sun ever rose in Dreamland,” said Mr. Grey after many moments. The daylight stole their breaths.
“It normally does not, Mr. Grey. I called him in to bat.” She turned to face the boulder. Its huge ovular shadow stretched down the hillside in the sun’s new light.
“Guests, board the comet.”
Tantara! Tantara! The din of trumpets. The blare of faerie horns hid in hollow trees. Tantara! Away with comet. Away with riders. The boulder soars, out of the forest, out of the standing stone ring, into the ether. Tantara, but far off now. The brassy blasts dwindle for the comet riders. Without seatbelts - with plastic branches, headful of mice, and anchor shawl, trailing out behind - the riders pale their knuckles in each other’s grasp. The last bugle blows. The leafy rustle fades. The Old Wind rushes in the ears, for a time. The comet flies higher. The Wind fades too. And at last… at last…
The startling rush blasts away the heady smells of the feast; freezing and chipping off the forest’s musk. The icy rush strikes startlingly on the faces. Cold! Cold! Cold enough to wring water from the eyes and strike the teeth. The comet flies higher. Then the cold blasts no longer. It settles, until… until…
The woods far behind - the land of dreams - sink away under a misty, pillowy bed. The comet flies higher. First only the treetops stay visible. Then nothing. All buried in powder waves. Then even that last bed slips away. And then… and then…
And then nothing. Frozen stillness. Unworldly stillness. Stillness thicker than any grave. Stiller than any hypogean vault. The comet curves higher and higher and higher. Into a new vault. Here, not a sound stirs. No rustling branches, no leaf-crunch underfoot, no Wind in the ears. Here there is no smell. Here there is no taste; only a hard cold that leaves the riders gasping. In this vault there is no blasting cold on robes and skin. Only cold that slowly sinks. A raw frost, a shackle of sensation. Up inside this new vault, no trees to see, no castles or manors or palaces. No tiny seas or dancing barns. Inside the new vault, there is only… only…
Light! All around, stars! One side, moon! Another side, sun! Light and stars and sun and moon; spinning round and round and round: golden, silvery, bright. The comet-riders fly inside the sky. Stars on every side. Stars above. Stars below. Stars upon stars upon engulfing stars, spinning around them, rolling past the arcing comet.
Then, suddenly, sinking sensations. The stars, the sun, the moon, the midnight in between; all crystalizing, all hardening, all draining of vitality. Universal frost. On the comet, the three feel rime in their eyes. The blood pounds in their ears; sloooowwwwllllyyy. The comet arcs. There is a new shadow in the pale. A round mass, rolling closer. The riders feel the touch of cold again at its approach, barely. It slams their skin; hardest on their fingers, and on their toes inside their shoes, and on the tips of their noses. In their noses is the smell of copper. Molasses-blood strives to reach their extremities with its crawling trickle. The stars and moon and sun swirl away into the quickening crystal of frost. The plasmic star-edges warble as they slide into vision’s corners. That plasma seems to touch their skin, to stick like tar. Hardly felt through the cold. Barely seen through the freeze. Not sensed at all. The comet plummets - with a plasmic downpour - out of the sky. A jelly-coated comet, its jelly-coated riders out cold, sliding down a jelly-drenched hill.
Mr. Grey orbits, senselessly, home.