Chapter 2 - All the King’s Men
“Look, I didn’t-” said Jodee.
The Starharbor-appointed prosecutor interrupted her. “Stop there. What do you mean by look?” The rotund man-of-law leveraged a set of enormous eyebrows in the burrowing stare he settled on Jodee.
“Geez! I’m only calling your attention to my speaking.” Jodee wobbled on her skates, across a rough patch on the frozen jelly pond. She crouched and spun her arms for balance.
The prosecutor turned sharp on his own skates. He cut jagged, wide, smooth parallels across the wobbly lines Jodee left in the ice. “If you want attention - and I am sure you do, miss! - then say, ‘attend me’. Never say ‘look’. Preposterous.”
Jodee caught her balance and brought herself upright. She made tight circles around the thin ice at the pond’s middle. She opened her mouth, but the prosecutor startled her by cutting another sharp angle, raising a plume of shaved ice. He pointed a meaty finger while keeping his thumbs hooked in the button-holes of his robe. “Miss Coats, answer the question; ‘yes’ or ‘no’. Did you derail a marble train, and knowingly use that diversion to infiltrate the Odormoat around Wine Medo?”
Jodee answered yes. She tried to follow-up with explanations. The prosecutor simply spoke louder. He flustered her with contradictions. Jodee struggled for footing on the loose skates she wore and constantly teetered over the jelly-ice. The prosecutor, meanwhile, skated in sharp, zigzaggy, but unexpectedly-graceful patterns. He played his case to the gawking crowd: to the judge born on a litter by the skating jury, leaving a multi-tracked trail in the ice; to the witnesses, waiting and skating casually along the pond’s shore; to the gathered onlookers, assistants, and bouncers, standing on the elevated stumps of trees, and suffering the brisk chill of another overcast day, that they might enjoy the spectacle of Jodee’s trial. This last group of well-to-do Starharboreans applauded, cheered, or booed appropriately, always in league with the prosecutor. They shouted suggestions for punishment, admonitions for Jodee, or just reflections on the scenery, as their fancy demanded. Jodee’s case against King’s Law sounded slimmer as the moments passed; one of the dandy’s yelled, “Fixin’ to barter a fresh set of factory-callouses, this lamb!”
The prosecutor beat another sharp turn on the ice, and launched into a fresh harangue. Meanwhile, Jack York turned to Mr. Grey. “Don’t know why they need you and me as witnesses.” He beat a crisp line on his skates to follow the shore.
Mr. Grey kept even pace with Jack, leaving curvy trails in the ice. “What do you mean, sir?”
“I just drove you. You just delivered her. Besides,” he added, with another firm turn that Mr. Grey followed in an arc, “this trial’s lost. City’s got its best prosecutor skating the case.”
Mr. Grey followed the current theme of the prosecutor’s diatribe for a tock - Jodee’s influence on the Wine Medo flower economy - while following the bank with Jack York. He said, “Mr. York, when I went through Toscamo, the locals had just avoided a food shortage.”
“Don’t go on, Grey. No one wants to hear about others’ vacations. It’s time to buckle down.”
“I only mean Jodee brought them plans for bean-farms. Brought new plans just when food was needed.”
“That’s nice. Now keep quiet damn it. Watch how he goes in on Miss Coats now!”
“You knowingly - with a will! - shattered King’s Law in Glory Days.” The prosecutor raised his voice to such a pitch that the frozen jelly itself echoed a sympathetic crackle. The crowd standing on the stumps booed, the litter-bearing jury shook their heads, and the judge atop the litter frowned. The prosecutor shouted on. “You incited bloodshed. You manipulated legitimate tourists. Have you a piece of drivel to explain these acts?”
“Where was the king?” said Jodee. She stamped her skate, but without cracking the pond. “All I saw in the bubbles were his hired thugs; the Glorious Defense Force.”
This brought hisses from the engrossed onlookers. The prosecutor swiveled with a muffin-top jiggle. “That talk won’t hold in this court. No slander of our royal keepers-of-peace.”
The judge piped in, “You’re on thin ice, miss Coats.” Jodee stumbled - like a newborn lamb - off the translucent jelly patch she’d accidentally crossed. The judge added, “But it’s true, this office of the law shan’t tolerate slandering of the king’s soldiers.”
“Well, where is our royal monarch?” Asked Jodee in a high voice of defensiveness. “If he and his guys are so gosh-darned hifalutin’, why ain’t they in this pageant?”
The prosecutor clucked with a patronizing smile and twirled deftly to skate backwards around Jodee. “Judge, this reallytruly is farce! It must be. Does this ne’er-do-well expect our grace to expose himself? To one her breed? Next she’ll suggest our monarch should spend his days working a bean-press.”
“Why not?” asked Jodee, which got another laugh from the crowd.
The prosecutor said, “The attendant bearing the king’s declaration of the Odormoats will now step forth.” One of the women standing on the stumps - a city clerk - hurriedly tied a pair of skates. She skated onto the ice, passed the prosecutor an envelope, and skated back. The prosecutor opened the envelope, and read aloud from a long parchment scroll. “The king henceforth establishes that arbitrary lines of division be established between regions of unlike olfactory culture, that the safety and health of all citizen shall…”
The prosecutor read on for some time. The language of King’s Law had a general soporific effect, no matter the listeners; only the reader ever remembered the full of what the law stated. Mr. Grey did hear some muffled snatches about punishments and sanction, but he missed the detail. Meanwhile, he and Jack skated along the shore. Mr. Grey asked, “Mr. York, do you know what bouncers do with Odormoat escapees?”
“Prison,” said Jack with a wag of his head. “The real kind. Or if she’s lucky, community service and a crippling fine. Small chance of that with how she’s presented herself.”
Mr. Grey, while still cutting smooth arcs onto the glassy surface, clasped his hands behind his back and tilted his eyes up. He looked like a ruminating library-statue which had come loose from its foundation, and now slid upright across a well-waxed marble floor. He said, “Mr. York it might do good to let our citizens pass the Odormoats more often.”
“Pass the Odormoats!” Jack York barked loud enough that the nearest attendees noticed and shushed them. “Grey, what’s the matter with you?”
“Lawfully I mean, sir.”
“Damn it Grey. Speak plain.”
“Sir, I met a Wisdom named Pots in Wine Medo. She reintroduced me to the violin. I met another friend there too; a man named Tom. A very good friend. And in Dreamland, I spoke with a merchant, who sold drinks at his stall in Stone-Head Town, who Jodee had-”
“Grey. The point. Now.”
“Sir, I’d never have met so many-”
But at that moment the prosecutor called Jack York as a witness. Jack skated to the middle. Together he and the prosecutor circled Jodee. The prosecutor asked Jack about her appearance on being picked-up, and about her attitude in the jelly-pusher, and what was Jack’s impression of her. Jack spoke truthfully; not with malice, but in his blunt way. Under the circumstances it did Jodee no favors.
While Jack testified, Jodee caught her breath and found her footing in the center of the frozen pond. She glowered at the witnesses and bystanders. She gave Mr. Grey a special, arm-folded, chin-turning air of betrayal.
After completing his testimony, Jack rejoined Mr. Grey and picked up right where they’d left. “Let’s hear it, Grey. What did Coats do right?”
“Plainly sir? She made some people happier. And some of the strangers I got to know - in other moats - left me happier. Would it be so terrible? Letting the everyday brick-cutter stretch his legs in Toscamo? Or letting a Glory Days seer see the way we tell fortunes in Starharbor.”
Jack York didn’t speak critically, but again in his usual, to-the-point way. “Are you telling me you want us throwing open the whole damned world? Didn’t you hear about that Glory Days scent savagery?”
“I saw the illness attack. I watched it chew Ms. Maysey.”
“You’d risk that at home? In the other moats too; a damned, full-scale, odor-assault, on the broad theater?”
Mr. Grey paused. “N-no sir.”
“What are you asking me, Grey?”
“We could compromise. King’s Law could make travel easier. With the proper de-scenting cologne, of course; with protection. The Odormoats don’t have to be so absolutely rigid, nor abolished. ‘Semi-permeable’, sir.”
Jodee - berated and cajoled by the prosecutor and the hungry mob - broke. Mr. Grey watched her stop over the thinnest part of the ice. She collapsed to a seat, with her skates splayed out in front of her. Mr. Grey remembered once again that Jodee was only a child. He saw her stuff her face into the spark-patterned robe-sleeve, and doused those embers with angry tears. All the while, the corpulent prosecutor spun and twirled. He left zipper-pattern cuts in the ice around her.
Jack York skirted another 90-degree angle, and said, “I’ll consider it Grey. To my mind, you’re hopped up on vacation adrenaline. Give it a working age. File a new, dated change-of-address or two. Nose-to-grindstone. You’ll come round to your old self. You’d better.”
“Mr. York, it’s not-”
“Quit jawing. We’ll watch this last bombardment now. Then we return to the front line.”
At that moment the prosecutor twirled on the ice next to the sitting, crying Jodee. His skates shaved another flaky wave of jelly ice and tossed it over her. It clung to her engine-robe and ruby-hair. It gave Jodee a pale look of long-exposure; as though she’d suffered for days under a freezing storm.
The prosecutor stretched his thumbs against the button holes of his chest-pockets. He regarded the judge-and-court litter with a partisan smile. He said, “Judge! Jury! Do we let this case walk on lighter sentences? After the hurts inflicted? After the damage done? This is an extreme case, ladies, gentlemen. This is a case of higher correction. A case of justice against the lion, not the dog. This traitor abandoned her Odormoat. She exposed herself to strangers without cologne. She fomented rebellion in Wine Medo and Dreamland. She led rebellion in Glory Days. She has neither word nor witness to justify…”
“Pardon me, that’s not quite right.” Mr. Grey spoke up from the frozen shore. The prosecutor stopped halfway through an inhale; his eyes bulged at Mr. Grey. The Judge, the Jury, the bystanders, and Jack York, stared. Mr. Grey, looking the same as always, broke away from Jack York. He skated a tight arc to the center-stage.
The prosecutor cleared his throat wetly. “What’s this? A witness disrupts the court? Contemptible. Who are you then?”
“Mr. Grey. A pleasure, Mr…?”
“What’s your business? How dare you intrude.” The prosecutor’s anger and voice began mounting to their former summit.
“Take his skates!” called someone from the shore.
The prosecutor zigged suddenly, cutting one of his wide lines next to Mr. Grey. Mr. Grey - statue on ice - maintained composure and said, “I mean you’re mistaken about her having no witnesses. I’ll speak for her case.”
The prosecutor huffed and asked how Mr. Grey had any involvement. An attendant at the side explained Mr. Grey’s occupation, and how he’d been found with Jodee. To that account Mr. Grey added that he’d originally gone after Jodee himself, to complete her visa while on vacation.
During the telling of these particulars, the prosecutor regathered his presence on the jelly pond. Now he launched a barrage of questions on Mr. Grey, accompanying each with an ice-scraping twirl. “Why didn’t you complete her visa, eh? Why’d you cool your heels in Wine Medo, and let her escape, huh? You’re a fine fellow, defending this ragamuffin! Why’d you accompany her home? Why’d she not return on a leash, carried in your hand? Have you been taken in by her wild notions? Will you, Mr. Grey, carry the torch once this villain’s put away? Do you feel now - I think you do! - that violating the Odormoats is right?! Well? Answer me now.”
The prosecutor had built and built and built thick, angular, parallel lines in complex geometric patterns around Mr. Grey, as he spun on question after question. Mr. Grey cut a smooth arc over one set, and said, “‘Why didn’t I complete her visa?’ It wasn’t necessary. We were on our way home.” He bladed two smooth curves over another set of straight lines. “I was slowed in Wine Medo after getting robbed on the branching road into Toscamo.” Another swift, graceful skate cut the prosecutor’s thick lines. “I came home with her because we were returning at the same time. It was convenient. She agreed to come of her own will. A leash, I’m sure we all agree, would have been superfluous and unnecessarily humiliating in those circumstances.”
The prosecutor’s smile waned. Mr. Grey’s unforgiving, stone face showed not the least unease at his questions. Mr. Grey’s toneless voice answered them, point-by-point. “‘Have I been taken in by her?’ ‘Do I plan on carrying the torch?’ No to both. You are half-correct in the last strain though. I do think a break in the Odormoats is right.”
The flat surface of the ice pond, seen from above, now showed a complex pattern at its center. A kaleidoscope of angular squares and pentagons and hexagons drawn in two thick, parallel lines; the prosecutor’s path. Atop these angular double-lines were a second set; thinner, and cut into mathematical waves, like the lines a pendulum drags through sand for the moon. These were Mr. Grey’s. Around the outside, other witnesses like Jack York, and the litter of the jury shaved many overlaid framing-lines around the central pattern. Jodee sat in the exact middle of all; a tiny ruby speck at the frozen pond’s center, with only a few early dashes to her name.
Mr. Grey and the prosecutor wheeled around Jodee, each in their own grace. At Mr. Grey’s last remark, the prosecutor pounced and veered in. “Aha!” he shouted. “Now there’s a truth. You’d see King’s Law broken then, you scoundrel?”
“No sir,” said Mr. Grey. “I’d see King’s Law changed.”
“Changed. Then you say King’s Law is wrong.”
“I say it might be better. It’s unnecessarily severe.”
“Unnecessarily.” The prosecutor laughed. His cheeks flushed with the heat of the case. He drew a hand from a button hole and waved it in a sweeping gesture, as he himself swept by Mr. Grey. The Prosecutor turned to the judge and said, “‘Unnecessary’, judge. Should we rely on this man’s testimony? He thinks the Odormoats are ‘unnecessary’; after all we’ve heard today…”
The judge pinched his chin in a thoughtful pose. As the jury bore his litter past Mr. Grey, he said, “Tell us, Mr. Grey: If the Odormoats are unnecessary, how do you justify the plague attack in Glory Days, in Wargermopolis? Don’t you think reforming King’s Law - letting masses of strangers introduce their violent, vicious scents to one another - would affect the same results?”
Mr. Grey glanced at his boss. Jack York watched Mr. Grey close while holding to a rigid vector along the shore.
Mr. Grey turned back to the judge. Jodee, however, spoke up from the thin ice in the pond’s middle. “We wouldn’t need big old smell-shares!” she said, in a voice muffled by her elbow. She took her arm away to reveal a teary face. “Not if you king’s bullheads hadn’t boxed folk up to begin with; locking them with their own stink.”
The court roared at Jodee outburst. The prosecutor said, “See the rebel for what she is. And this grey man justifies her?”
Mr. Grey sighed through his nose; a weary sound, but persistent too. He said, “Judge, jury, I think Ms. Coats’s point worth considering, though she spoke bluntly.”
“Worth considering-” started the prosecutor.
“But,” Mr. Grey went on, “it’s also worth noting; the king’s own Glorious Defense Force caused just as much hurt in Wargermopolis.” The prosecutor opened his mouth to interrupt, but something in Mr. Grey’s flinchless mien overbowled the blustering, flabby man. “I’ve heard no mention of the event in these proceedings. Surely word’s reached this court of the Defense Force’s tourist pogrom.”
Mr. Grey had skated and spoken with eyes fixed on Jodee. She met his stare with sporadic, half-beaten, half-grateful flashes.
A schlick from the prosecutor’s skates against the ice grabbed Mr. Grey’s attention. The prosecutor coasted, smooth and straight, his arms in his pockets, and a deep frown plunging the corners of his mouth down into his wide cheeks. He said, “This court’s not assembled to attend your diverting lectures, Mr. Grey. Answer without meandering.”
“I’ve done so,” said Mr. Grey.
“Should Jodee Coats go unpunished?”
Mr. Grey’s right skate wobbled, introducing a gnarl to his perfect arcs.
“Do you think, Mr. Grey; after kindling riots betwixt tourist and soldier; after the greatest rash of olfactory attacks any moat has seen in the last score of eons; do you think Jodee Coats should be released scott-free? Not so much as a knock on the nose?”
Mr. Grey didn’t answer. The laces on his skates seemed suddenly loose. He found balance difficult on the thin blades.
“Is that lawful, Mr. Grey? Not even lawful. Is that right?”
Mr. Grey looked at Jodee. She met his look, from behind the rime of shaved ice and the fast-freezing tear lines. From her eyes, the indignant, self-righteousness had been stripped. What replaced it was a beaten despondency, the like of which Mr. Grey had seen in pedestrian faces on his way to court.
The prosecutor said, “Mr. Grey? Silent now, are you?”
Mr. Grey said, “I don’t think-”
Jodee said, “Goodness, just answer him truthfully Mr. G.” She tried to sound irate, but Mr. Grey saw that her eyes held no reproach. “Quit waffling!”
Mr. Grey turned to the prosecutor. “She should face consequences. But-”
But nothing. The prosecutor took the line and ran. He ravaged Mr. Grey’s testimony, slight as it had been. He proved Mr. Grey, doubtless, the least reliable witness in all of Starharbor. He made Mr. Grey a detractor from Jodee’s side, instead of a positive mark upon it.
Mr. Grey skated stiffly - beaten - back to Jack York. The prosecutor wrapped his case. The jury huddled beneath the litter, still skating gracefully under their load. They deliberated for only a moment. Then the lead juror craned his neck around the litter’s brim and said to the judge on top, “Guilty.”
Mr. Grey joined his boss with a smooth momentum. Jack said, “Not a bad volley, Grey. You just fought outgunned. Let’s hear sentencing.”
The judge pushed himself up on the litter. He stretched his arms and yawned, putting on display his robe of wig-hair. One of the jurors fell off his skates under the weight shift. The judge waited with a tapping gavel for the juror to rejoin, then said, “In light of the evidence here presented and the decision of the jury; under the mercy of King’s Law; you, Jodee Coats, have been found guilty. Taking circumstances into my consideration, as well as all testimonies,” he eyed Mr. Grey and Jack York, “presented, I give my verdict. The sentence: seven epochs of community service, and payment of three dragon’s hoards™ in reparation to injured parties.”
The crowd muttered disappointment. Mr. Grey said quietly, “Well Mr. York, that’s not as bad as I thought.”
Mr. Grey saw Jack York shaking his head. Then the judge continued. “Should you fail to appear before the Regional Justice Treasury Office with the fine before the epoch’s end, or should you fail to perform the service, your sentence is altered to the rest of existence working in the king’s bean-factories.”
Jodee hung her head and looked at the thin, translucent ice between her skates. She watched the unfrozen jelly jiggling under the surface. Jack York turned to Mr. Grey and said, “That’s King’s Law and King’s Verdict. Doff your skates, Grey. We’ll ruck back to town.”
Mr. Grey, however, shook his head, and raised a thoughtful finger to his chin. He said, “There’s other laws.”
“What’s that you’re mumbling?”
Mr. Grey didn’t hear the question. As the jury skated to the edge of the shore, and prosecutor shook hands with the entertained audience, Mr. Grey called above the hubbub.
“Well, it looks like no one can save her now.”
At that exact moment, a voice cried out from the onlookers. “You’ll find no feller in this skin-n’-bone-n’-muscle mix what’s agreeing with them quitter-speaks!”
One of the dandies jumped from his stump, splashing into the jelly on the shore. He wore a robe of fractal-patterned butterfly wings, and an enormous umbrella tophat. This last article he removed with a flourish, revealing a bald scalp - shiny, even under the overcast sky - and a historied face; ridden-rough, put-away-wet, returned-to, cleaned-up, and now with only a few persistent dirt marks of harder times.
The crowd hushed. Mr. Grey heard the prosecutor mutter, “Blasted King’s Law.”
The man with the hat walked to the edge of the lake where Mr. Grey and Jack York stood. Jodee had risen as well. She skated to join them, tentative and hesitant in her footing, curious in her face.
The strange dandy looked them over with the eager-eyes set in his clean-but-worn face. He said, “I’ve wiggled you’re somber on first-choice chances by way o’ un-ample assets?” Mr. Grey recognized this as a local Starharbor dialect. He interpreted it as, “You seem to expect you won’t be able to produce her fine?”
Mr. Grey said, “I’d chip in, but I spent my savings on a poor family in Dreamland.”
“Grey,” shouted Jack. He goggled his employee, jaw slack, thermos spilling his mystery-drink onto the ice.
Mr. Grey went on speaking to the dandy. “Pardon sir, you seem familiar.”
The man nodded knowingly, and winked several times, alternating eyes for Jodee and Mr. Grey. He said, “Like thumb-grease on flyleaves. In your vault, I’d wager, lies the cobwebbed name of ‘Bugwitch’?”
Mr. Grey brought up his left hand, rubbed his left eye, then did the same with the other side. He said, “The stoop dweller? From the tram?”
“The graven icon.”
“The one I gave my nuts and bolts, on the dragon tram?”
“Fixed n’ fastened.”
“Did you, by any chance, fix my name as a cosigner on a finders’ loan?” Bugwitch’s gleaming eyes dimmed, and his gap-toothed, pearly teeth hid as his smile faltered. Jodee and Jack York looked between the former stoop dweller and Mr. Grey, completely lost. Mr. Grey added, “Perhaps by accident?”
Bugwitch said, “Wording like the law is scribbled, I confabbed the texture of your statue’s title. Not without lobein’ over a mighty eon, n’ for that I peel the chesthair n’ reveal a sooted four-chambers. But take what cares you’ve pawned n’ cash your ticket. This dweller’s jumped a mean sum of stoops. There’s just safe-fulls for the parchment-shake, owed purses for your lugs, n’ any fiscialities that’s yet unadministered in your court. Let a humble Bugwitch thumb through your temple’s book, when the bells call service!”
Bugwitch held his hat in his hands while he spoke. Mr. Grey translated his words as, “Speaking truthfully, I did forge your name. It was no accident, and I am ashamed of it. But you need trouble yourself no further. I’ve come into my fortune. I’m prepared to repay the loan, repay you for your nuts and bolts, and come to your aid. All this I offer, in your hour of need!”
The Court Processing Sub-Complex valet made a snare-drum tap on the cobblestones as he darted up the street, along a row of parked highwheels. Bugwitch’s ticket - and a generous two feather tip - fluttered in the valet’s fingers as he vanished round the corner. Bugwitch himself turned to Mr. Grey, Jodee, and Jack York. He settled his old-and-young smile on them. He said, “He’ll skip to my whistle and haul my cart jiffy-like. We’ll roister up the pavings - statue, bug, and lady-rebel - to each glassfront what snatches our peepers. Let’s ballet, us three, over your touching friends’-soil, your shaking friends’-mitts, and your finding a friend what’s inspected, locked up, and put away a problem-o’-capital,” which Mr. Grey understood as, “The valet should return with my private highwheel shortly. I mean to treat you and Ms. Coats to a shopping spree. It shall be a celebration of your homecoming, our reunion, and the successful payment of her fine.”
Jodee stamped her foot and tossed her hair. Almost all her old air had returned with her fine’s payment. She shifted her alwayslush to her left arm and looked over the court’s writ of community service. She said, “This sentence is a real shoulder-dropper. I come home, and my first job is spending epochs scraping street jelly.”
Mr. Grey said, “Better than a bean factory. We can’t thank you enough, Bugwitch.”
“This dweller’s future’s founded on the shore o’ your fasteners,” said Bugwitch with a dismissive wave of the umbrella-tophat. “Thank not.”
Jodee said, “The trams shove new jelly over the street daily. Why bother?”
“It’s the thought,” said Mr. Grey with a shrug. “You can use it as time to settle in.”
“I’m not a settler,” said Jodee. She tried speaking with conviction. But Mr. Grey noticed she averted her eyes, and that her voice hadn’t reached the incensed pitch she’d used with the city prosecutor.
They heard a rattle and saw the shadow of Bugwitch’s highwheel stretching into their street from around the corner.
Jack York tossed his worker’s-cap over his scalp. “Grey, I’m off now,” he said. “Back to my post. No time for chit-n’-chat. Before I go; that stunt back there…”
Mr. Grey and Jack York stared at each other. Jack York was certainly a cultivated expert in the art of the staring contest; but Mr. Grey’s talent knew no match. Mr. Grey, however, willingly lost. He averted his eyes. He said, “Mr. York, I didn’t want to involve our office or you personally in Jodee’s trial. I still stand by my testimony. I understand, sir, if- if I’ll need to be reevaluated.”
“Quit being such a sapling, Grey,” said Jack York. Jodee barked a laugh. “You’re not getting canned.”
“Oh. Thank you, sir.”
“Thought your vacation left you shell shocked. Didn’t realize you were genuine about those reforms.”
“I hope I’m a loyal citizen. Even so, I felt time from home served me well.”
“We’ll see. I’m just a regular mule-boss, Grey. Your average laborer, soldiering forth; another body to throw at the parchmentwork front. But I’ll see what I can do. Maybe we can cut a couple forms from the application process.”
“I think that’s a good step.”
“Mmmm,” Jack York nodded gruffly. He gave his thermos a mighty shake, took a deep swig, smacked his lips, and without another word, stalked down the street. He walked past Bugwitch’s approaching highwheel and dissolved into Starharbor’s smog.
When Jack York had gone beyond earshot Jodee said, “I still say that ain’t near fair. Not when the jelly pushers, and the pencil pushers, and the bean pressers have worked these same brick-and-mortar-and-grime streets for generations without rest.”
Mr. Grey said, “Tiny steps, I think, Ms. Coats. Careful, deliberate, tiny steps.”
“And this community service is malarky.”
“I think we did well. It might be a way to apply your talents.”
“How?”
“Foinstance, you could spread your stories and good cheer to pedestrians on the streets you clean.”
“Not much cheer to spread with this glum lot,” said Jodee obstinately. Nevertheless, her face brightened after Mr. Grey’s idea.
Bugwitch’s highwheel pulled up at the cobblestone sidewalk and clattered to a halt. It was a tall, long wagon stretched between four enormous silver wheels. Matching silver bells dangled and jingled from the underside. A sterling chain ran from a cog on the axle to the chassis, where a driver had pedals to propel the vehicle. Mr. Grey saw a small, saloon-style door open on the side by the driver’s bench. The driver - a stoat of course - loosened a fastener, and a set of attack-steps dropped to the sidewalk for them to mount.
Bugwitch clapped his wrinkled hands then flourished them toward his highwheel. He said, “Outerwear and Sculpture, don the cleats n’ stab the soil. We’ll nostril-poke as many jinglydoors as is earthly by sunwink.” Mr. Grey translated this to, “Climb aboard Mr. Grey and Ms. Coats. I want to visit every shop we can before they close for the day.”
Mr. Grey said, “Reallytruly, Mr. Bugwitch. Our thanks for paying Jodee’s fine.” He turned to Jodee. She gave her thanks as well. He turned back to Bugwitch. “There’s no need for a shopping trip. Jodee and I can settle ourselves without assistance.”
Bugwitch’s scalp shone blindingly bright. “Such a carnival of soaring sows, singing serpents, n’ hairless cats as I never set my gleamers on. This hearts in spoilsome humor, and you’re the folks he’s fixed.” By that he meant, “Nonsense. My treat.”
Jodee, whose eye bags carried tired lines and who longed for home and rest as much as Mr. Grey, said, “Besides, what’s your business in our business?”
“Your welfare,” cried Bugwitch.
None of their polite refusals freed them from Bugwitch’s generous claws. In the end, Mr. Grey, Jodee, and Bugwitch mounted the attic-ladder into the passenger-box of the highwheel. They loaded their luggage and Mr. Grey’s violin coffin onto a trunk platform. Bugwitch promised to triple their possessions by the day’s end. The stoat pumped his tiny feet and pedaled the vehicle into a clumsy start. Each cobblestone added its own bumpy character to the ride. At Bugwitch’s order, the stoat steered them toward Starharbor’s closest shopping center.
They journeyed through Starharbor; through districts familiar and homely to Mr. Grey; along the dragon-tram canals in Smithersfield; across the moisture-sapping bridges of Bleachgate and past the rebuilt bean-factory of the Canalatin Bagging Co.; alongside the wheelhouses and finders’ offices in Wheelhouse Uncommons.
At every new corner, Bugwitch jumped up from the back seat. He would raise his head over the railing to point out some place familiar to Mr. Grey. “That comestiblery’s where I eared you flapped on rodents,” said the former stoop dweller, as they passed the tavern where Mr. Grey and Honeydew had flown on bats during the bar fight. “I weren’t betimes in knuckling your origin-portal,” he broke out at another instance, pointing with a clean, leathering finger to Mr. Grey’s workers’ prison. From these observations made by his dependent-turned-patron, Mr. Grey gathered that Bugwitch had searched for him up-and-down Starharbor.
Their transport rolled for many moments over the bumpy roads before it reached Starharbor’s largest shopping district. Mr. Grey stood up on the highwheel’s front seat. He watched the storefronts roll by on either side; their windows brightly flame lit, busy with sundry displays, and plastered with large-fonted advertisements. Peering over the rail Mr. Grey saw the ground-level entrances of the shops, where jelly-spattered pedestrians could enter from the grimy street, and browse goods of like quality. Every shop had a second-story; an entire floor of finer goods, with a plank-like platform at the exact height of a highwheel, so that the fortunate shopped above the baser crowd.
The first place where Bugwitch ordered the stoat to stop was outside an upper-class thrift shop. The window-advertisements boasted particularly of its recalled children’s’ toys and rehabilitated musical instruments. Bugwitch ran across the gangplank. He flung the door open with a jingle and leapt into the second-story space. His hands darted up and down, left and right; grabbing at every toy, instrument, and flower on which his bright eyes lighted.
While Bugwitch ran about the store, Jodee and Mr. Grey remained in the highwheel. Both were comfortable letting Bugwitch do the buying. Jodee sat on one of the highwheel rims. She wrapped her arms around the pot of her alwayslush and rested her chin on its branches. She looked at the street below. She said, “I’m still tenterhooked about your boss, Mr. G.”
“Jack’s not a bad guy,” said Mr. Grey.
“His ‘pulling some strings’ doesn’t sound good enough to me. Here’s another case of unfair treatment; look over the edge. What do you see?”
Mr. Grey leaned over the front rail of their ride. He followed Jodee’s eyes into the street. “I see people walking. I see a couple leaving the first floor of this shop.”
“Why’s our monarch gotta keep high class gear from people walking the street?”
“The people down there don’t look upset.”
“Of course not; all we see is the tops of their heads. You can’t see Ignorance and Want in the top of a fella’s head. Unless he’s young and bald. I’ve been down there with ‘em though. So have you I guess. Most folks could use some compassion, more than one less visa parchment to fill is gonna give.”
Mr. Grey glanced in the shop window. Bugwitch was still running along the aisles. Mr. Grey said, “I don’t think making a stranger’s existence better means sweeping changes. Better to have lots of little one. Like your community service, or my pencil pushing. The little acts aren’t as noticeable, but they feel safer. It’s the right direction, even if it’s slow. Better to pick our beans and jell by hand, than harvest with a steamwheel.”
“That sounds dandy, but it doesn’t do much right now. Not for those folks trudging through the grimy jelly-muck.”
Mr. Grey pinched his chin. “Why not invite them to ride? There’s room on the seats and the rims and the wheel wells for more passengers.”
Jodee lifted her head off the alwayslush. “Mr. G. that ain’t a bad idea.”
Mr. Grey turned to the stoat and said, “Excuse me. Could you drop the steps to the street?” The stoat did so. Jodee took the task of advertising - for which Mr. Grey was grateful - and invited some citizens below to a free highwheel ride. A dozen aimless wanderers responded. They mounted the attic-ladder. Soon the highwheel thronged with passengers.
Bugwitch showed no hurry in leaving the thrift store. Jodee’s patience with the stoop dweller at last vanished. She said, “Hey, Bugwitch, I’m not getting younger. Let’s roll.” She turned to Mr. Grey. “Can’t believe I’m asking - what’s the time? I wanna get home sometime this eon.”
Mr. Grey pulled out his ticker and consulted it. An idea struck. He stepped through the crowd in the highwheel and offered his ticker to Jodee. “Here,” he said. “You’ll never wonder at the time with this in your pocket.”
Jodee leaned back and nearly tumbled off the wheel well. “Ain’t it your device?”
“I don’t consult it as often as I used to. Sorry about the cracked glass. I’m sure Bugwitch could pay for its repair.”
Jodee took the ticker and smiled as she looked at the broken face. “I like it this way. Suits me better.” She stuffed the ticker into a pocket and leaned against the alwayslush. Together, she and Mr. Grey watched the bustle of Starharbor’s shopping district. After a moment, Jodee added, “It is nice to be home. A cheerless home. But it’ll do.”
Bugwitch burst from the shop with a door bell jingle, followed by a train of porters. At first the host of strangers aboard his highwheel took him aback. He laughed after a moment’s consideration, and said, “The greater, the jollier.”
Bugwitch’s porters brought forth bag after bag after bag of purchased goods, all of which he bestowed upon Jodee and Mr. Grey. There were toys of every kind: My-First-Tobacco-Pipes, baby brick set, collections of skipping stones, and hoop-stick kits. There were brass, woodwind, and stringed instruments. The stoop dweller had three porters alone to carry the glut of hats and robes and shoes. After arranging all these gifts in a mountain beside Mr. Grey and Jodee, Bugwitch laughed and slapped his thighs. He bade the stoat pedal with all speed to the next store. Jodee and Mr. Grey gave each other tired, resigned shrugs.
Mr. Grey had no want for the random knick knacks, or the instruments, or the unfitted clothes which Bugwitch had procured. Mr. Grey knew what he liked. While Bugwitch wasn’t watching he passed the purchases to the riding strangers, who were delighted in their gifts. The only item he kept was one Jodee gave. She passed him a bouquet of fake narcissuses. When he asked why, she said, “At the queen’s feast, Maysey told me about your friend Tom. She said he liked flowers. I figured you’d wanna keep these.”
I must tell you, Mr. Grey kept those flowers for ever after.
Mr. Grey walked to the front of the carriage, among the happy passengers throng, beside Bugwitch, his anchor shawl trailing in the breeze. He watched the city roll past. Cold, stony, smoggy, dirty, home. He noticed the pipkin stoat shivering while he pedaled. Mr. Grey stepped up to the driver’s box, undid his shawl, and wrapped the stoat in its cloth. The stoat gave him a single nod, and returned to the pedals. Mr. Grey asked, “Well stoat, what do you think? Shall we call this vacation?”
Bugwitch tried waving the thought of quitting. Jodee lost her temper again. She attacked - verbally - until the stoop dweller gave way. The stoat, meanwhile, had glanced about the streets. He pointed silently for Mr. Grey, down a road off their right.
The side-road squeezed its way between a half-dozen storefronts lit by dancing flamelights. At its far end it stopped being a side-road, and became a city park.
Now this was the Starharbor brand of park, which differed in certain respects from your run-of-the-mill town sward. First; the Starharbor park was smaller, only about the size of an interior courtyard in a city block, and surrounded by tall brick walls on all sides. Second; there was no grass - no vegetation at all unless mold be counted - for the ground was paved in concrete, and a giant umbrella-hat hung over the square, stopping all light and most of the jelly rain which dropped from the sky. Third; there were no park benches, or sculptures, or other decorations of the kind found in regular parks. There was a graffiti covered strut of starmetal - its niches and grooves stuffed with worn-out socks and forgotten glass eyes - which supported the umbrella hat. A greasy lantern topping this pole made most of the park’s murky light. A cozy fire barrel surrounded by stoop dwellers abutted the brick walls in one corner. A traveling tinker had his stall set up in another corner, where he fitted a group of girls and boys for their first word machines.
In all other respects, this Starharbor park was a recreational paragon.
The stoat had pointed his silent finger at the school of future-pencil-pushers, all tapping tentatively on the differently sized and styled machines the tinker sold. Mr. Grey understood the pipkin-stoat’s intent. He asked Bugwitch to stop by the park. Bugwitch assented, and the stoat pedaled their highwheel; with its tinkling silver bells; with its clattering silver wheels; with its laughing mob of passengers playing with toys and instruments; the stoat pedaled this ride into the park. The passengers cheered as they drove beneath the giant umbrella hat. The sky had just begun a heavy jelly rain which drummed the alley cobblestones.
Mr. Grey dismounted. Bugwitch, Jodee, and the stoat remained. They pushed their feet out beneath the highwheel’s rail and swung their legs as they sat beside each other. The stoop dwellers by the fire barrel invited Mr. Grey to join them. He thanked them for the offer but declined. He approached the tinker’s stall, violin in-hand.
“Pardon me young sirs and madam,” said Mr. Grey politely. The children turned and looked at him. “Would you like a break from clickety-clacking? I’m a violinist; a fiddler. I could play a small enchantment. If you wanted.”
The children looked hesitant; the tinker, indifferent. Jodee called from the highwheel. “You should listen to this guy. He’s a senior pencil-pusher. Knows his stuff.”
As if Mr. Grey’s stone face hadn’t been intimidating enough… One brave girl said, “But, Mr…?”
“Mr. Grey.”
“But Mr. Grey, shouldn’t we practice? And focus? And work on finding the perfect machine for our finger-size, sir?”
Mr. Grey brought the violin to his shoulder, and his bow to the strings. He said, “Everyone needs a break sometimes.”
The violin plays. Little, low, merry notes. Notes almost lyrical, bidding farewell to troubles. Notes that carry cares far, far away. The starpole lantern shines brighter and yellower in the easy air. The fire barrel glows with ruddy gold. The highwheel passengers add their new bought instruments to the tune; some on-key; all happy. The students settle cozily atop their word machines. The stoop dwellers lean into their fire. A happy crowd, gathering round the enchanting grey man and his fiddle.
The strings hum. Long, soft notes. They sing through the ages. Sing through worry. Sing through the wear of the park. The notes brush the walls and floor, and the starpole, and the falling jelly-rain. The dirt and soot runs off the bricks, and they glow with the fresh red of the kiln. The starpole ages like copper, turning mottled green and brown. The jelly rain falls like white snow. The highwheel bells of sterling silver tinkle along with the music. A rich old man, a sparking young girl, and a pipkin stoat swing their feet to the song.
The bow repeats. The same, soothing music. The same notes dance like old friends through the park. They turn around the starpole. Its graffiti strobes slowly through every color that is warm, and the lantern on top shines like a star. The colors touch everything, shine everywhere… even adding a little red, and a smidge of blue, and yellow dash, and green streaks, to the grey of the player. The children, stoop dwellers, and highwheel passengers hum with the tune. Their voices hold hands with the enchantment. As the children lean together toward the fiddle, faces flushed and drunk on music; as the stoop dwellers snuggle close to their barrel, and the gold of their fire warms their hearts and eyes; as passengers play happily along; as the pipkin stoat stretches out his arms, and shares his new shawl with the young girl and the old man; as they all huddle together, and every sound plays sweetly with every other, and the white jelly rain seems shining and far away; everyone smiles.
The little children smile.
The stoop dwellers smile.
The passengers smile.
Jodee and Bugwitch smile.
Even the stoat smiles.
And Mr. Grey…
Mr. Grey…