The tiny pinpricks of light from the barrel’s lid were eclipsed by sunlight flooding up into the barrel as the small cork was removed. A trickle of water escaped and Chism heard Bly much more clearly. “Looks like this one’s almost drained.” He kept the cork out for ages, collecting what was left before stoppering it again.
Chism didn’t hear the soldier drink, but a loud spitting noise told him Bly had tasted the water. “Taste like vinegar! It’s gone bad, Tonin. Looks like The Boys forgot to clean and fill this one.”
“I’ll have words with them about that,” said Tonin, sounding sincere. “Come back here, the other barrels have plenty of that sweet water.” His voice faded away as he went on.
Drops of nervous sweat added to the rank mixture in the barrel. Tonin and Bly were too far away for Chism to make out their words, but they sounded casual. Regardless, Chism crouched, ready to spring if the top of the barrel was opened. He wondered if he had made a mistake in trusting Tonin. There was still a chance he had brought him this far to hand Chism over to a soldier who was a friend. Or wait for the reward money to increase. Bly might grow suspicious of the water. Or…
The creak of the wheels and jostle of the wagon made Chism flinch, but he realized they were moving again and began to relax.
After sloshing through three thousand and ten strokes of his leather, he was finally released from the wooden prison. Tonin kept his composure, but The Boys couldn’t contain their laughter over the surprise in Bly’s drink. One of them caught him by surprise with a hearty slap on the back, but Chism ducked away before they could congratulate him further.
Unfazed, another one said, “You got some nerve, making water for Lieutenant Bly to drink.”
“I don’t know how you kept from laughing, Tonin,” another added. “What I wouldn’t give to see Bly’s face.”
Chism didn’t bother to tell them a spill, not spunk, caused the incident. The three continued to laugh uproariously as they set up camp and cooked dinner.
For the remainder of the trip, Chism rode or walked alongside the wagon. Tonin explained, “You may have been a dangerous fugitive in Far West, but here in the interior you’re just a boy in too-small clothes along for the ride. Provincials bear little sway in the interior, if they even come here. But I still don’t want you wearing that sword, just in case there’s a reward.”
The road led slowly downhill as they left the Wasteland Mountains behind and it didn’t take long for the air to grow dryer and warmer than Far West. The only snow was on far away mountain peaks. But the grasses were also sparser, meaning more stops for longer periods to allow the oxen to graze. Eight days passed in relatively easy travel. Now free from his prison, Chism did his share of chores: gathering wood, tending oxen, and cooking. His leg was stiff, but most of the pain was gone.
On the morning of the ninth day, Tonin announced, “The next town is as far as I go. This is the northernmost part of my route.”
“It’s really dry. Does anything grow here?”
“Sure, irrigation ditches bring water from the river. Cotton and orange farmers mostly. Plus a few decent craftsmen. I can’t spare any coin or food to help you get to Palassiren, but folks here will hire you on long enough to earn your way. Too bad the mirror maker got a new apprentice a few months back or he could have taught you a skill.” Apparently Tonin had forgotten that Chism’s skill was wrapped inside the wagon. He continued, “Still, winter time means harvest in Shey’s Orchard; there should be plenty for you to do.”
An hour later the first farm came into view, with black cattle that dotted the low hills. Chism darted into the wagon to retrieve Thirsty, then jumped down and climbed onto the cattle fence. “Tonin, Boys, I thank you for what you’ve done. If there’s ever anything I can do to repay you…” Not finishing the sentiment or giving the men a chance to speak he vaulted over the fence and set off at a jog for the farmhouse.
Chapter 14
Madness
Two weeks after setting off on the Eastern Spoke, Hatta returned to the Hub. He still hadn’t seen the Cheshire Cat, but the two weeks were a success overall. Tired of spending valuable traveling time in foraging, he stopped at the town of Yendlie to earn food. Not only did he come away with a sack of food, but also a variety of wonderful teas for which Yendlie was famous.
But he still didn’t know which Spoke to take. Three he’d travelled, five he hadn’t. In the time it would take to track down Tjaden, he could try four of them, so he decided to rely on his luck. It always served him well in the past.
Examining each Spoke, Hatta removed his traveling hat in order to think. None of the roads seemed any more cattish than the others. On a whim, he tossed the hat into the air and admired the spinning turtle-shell pattern. It came down slowly, drifting to land in the middle of the Spoke to the northwest. Purple wasn’t exactly a trustworthy color, but he didn’t have a better idea. After dusting off his hat, he started down the road.
A day and a half later, Hatta entered a forest of oak, birch, pine and silkwood. Most trees were bare, but the few that still held some color were needly and thick. The dead leaves underfoot had given up their gold, red, and orange and now formed a dampening brown carpet. Though the loss of color was tragic, Hatta contented himself with the knowledge that the colors would be back come spring.
To his delight, a fork appeared in the road a couple hundred paces past the first trees. Hatta hurried to the split in the road, but didn’t see anything resembling a cat so he said, “Good day?”
“Good day, yourself,” said a tenor voice low in the trees. A large-headed cat, with an even larger smile, emerged from behind a tree. It jumped into the fork of a pale tree and lounged along a branch. The gray fur with black stripes had blended into the mat of dead leaves, but stood out vividly against the bark.
“Mr. Cat? I’m Mr., um…,” Hatta hadn’t thought far enough ahead. “Well you see, I don’t actually have a surname.”
“Feel free to use mine if you like. And please, call me Cheshire.” The animal’s voice was high like an eleventeen-year old boy, giving the impression of mischievousness.
Hatta tried the cat’s surname but wasn’t comfortable with it. “Hatta Cat doesn’t seem to fit, but I thank you just the same. Would you be a cat, perchance? Or merely by name?”
“I’m no more a cat than a prairie dog is a dog or a titmouse is a mouse.”
Hatta nodded and Cheshire continued happily. “Guinea pig, mongoose, catfish.”
“As I understand it, a catfish is a fish.”
“Ah, but it is most definitely not a cat.”
Sound logic.
But the non-cat’s name still puzzled Hatta. “Why are you called ‘Cheshire Cat’, if you
are
a Cheshire Cat?”
“Why not?”
“They don’t call me ‘Man’, or ‘Human’.”
“But if you were the only one, I wager they would.”
Cheshire’s argument made sense. Hatta was shocked how easy it was to talk to the creature, even about things on which, at first, they didn’t see eye to eye.
“You are entirely delightful,” Hatta said. “How is it that you talk?”
Cheshire tilted his head and smiled wistfully. He trilled, “How is it that other animals don’t?”
“Oh, but they do! Some of them helped me find food on my way to Palassiren, and a rath spoke loudly at a wedding I went to.”
The smiling creature nodded. “All animals talk in their way. It’s people that don’t listen.”
“I’m going to save the kingdom some day,” blurted Hatta. He felt so comfortable with Cheshire that he didn’t mind telling him.
“Of course you are,” Cheshire said confidently.
“I am? Sometimes people act odd when I tell them.”
“As you can see, I am not
people
. You are more important than even you know, Hatta.”
He had never received such optimistic praise, and was reluctant to trust Cheshire. Believing too much in his destiny could very well get him in trouble. “How do you know it? Because sometimes I wonder if mad thoughts make me think it.”
Cheshire considered for a moment then answered, “How do you know when an animal is comical, or hungry, or bored when most people have no idea?”
“Sometimes I can just tell things.”
“Ah,” said Cheshire, nonchalantly satisfying an itch on his neck against the bark of the tree. “So can I.”
Hatta made himself comfortable on the colorless carpet of leaves and the two friends spent hours chatting about likes and dislikes, words and ideas, theories and riddles. Cheshire proved to be expert at both posing and answering riddles, and didn’t seem to mind Hatta’s inability to solve most of his queries.
As night began to fall, Hatta realized he hadn’t eaten all day. “Would you know where I might find food?” He still had a little from Yendlie, but it made sense to ask an animal that would answer straight.
“Of course, Hatta. There’s a winterberry patch not far from here.” Cheshire shifted and suddenly all Hatta could see was his brilliant toothy smile. When he closed his mouth Cheshire disappeared entirely.
The next Hatta saw of the curious animal was a smile reappearing near his feet. As he watched, Cheshire’s body seemed to disengage from the background of dead leaves and walk past him up the trail. It was as if someone lit a Cheshire lamp, though to Hatta’s knowledge there was no such thing.
“Was that disappearing?” asked Hatta, unsure if his mind was trying to deceive him again.
“Not really, no. That’s just a little trick I do.”
“Would it be magic?” asked Hatta.
“If I could spin a web, would you ask that?”
Hatta shook his head. “If you were any type of spider you could do that.”
“What if I squirted ink at annoying predators? Or emitted a noxious spray that could be smelled a mile away? Or excreted a shell so I could get out of the rain? Magic?”
Hatta shook his head again.
“So I may be the only species able to turn my colors on and off. Call it what you like.”
As a demonstration, Cheshire dimmed the color of his fur until it faded to almost nothing, then increased the brightness until the black and gray were almost luminescent.
Following Cheshire along the trail, Hatta said, “I would think it convenient to blend away when you want to. That’s a trick I’d like to learn.”
“You could never manage in such vivid clothes.”
“But I care for colors so.”
“Well, we all make choices, don’t we?”
He turned into the trees where no path existed and soon they reached an area brimming with winterberry bushes. Though the berries were somewhat shriveled, Hatta ate voraciously for some time. He only stopped when he noticed Cheshire in the fork of a nearby tree.
“I thank you, Cheshire. The berries are most delicious.” Unsure of the protocol for interacting with the talking animal, Hatta lightly patted Cheshire’s head, leaving deep purple spots on the gray stripes in the fur. He stared in wonder at his stained fingers and the spots they left. The purple was so pure and intense that he wiped the fingers of his other hand along the light stripes in Cheshire’s coat.
Cheshire cleared his throat. “If you keep that up it’s going to make blending in very difficult.”
Hatta apologized quickly and attempted to wipe away the color with his tunic but the color had set.
What a remarkable dye!
With a quick nod of his head, Hatta sent his hat tumbling to the ground then reached for the plumpest berries within reach. Mashing them between his fingers, Hatta covered both hands with the vibrant juice then ran them through his own hair, which was much longer than he realized. Stretching it far enough to see the dyed ends exhilarated him.
Under his breath he mumbled, “If only one of my mirrors were here.”
“Ah, yes. Your mirrors. Your magnificent, crucial mirrors.”
“I think they have something to do with my destiny.”
“You think correctly, but only as cobbles in your path. The cement is your powerful kindness. I doubt even you can realize the monumental consequence of your kindness.”
Hatta stared, wide eyes and crooked smile. “Would you be a figment of my imagination? Sometimes my thoughts seem so mad, and nobody ever approves of them.”
“I am as real as the purple in your hat. And besides, a touch of madness makes life so much more enjoyable, don’t you think?”
Hatta was torn. Though he never felt happier than the times he was caught up in illogical creativity, it was a major source of conflict with other people.
Why does life demand I choose between happiness and sanity?
Cheshire would be a dangerous friend.
“Insanity,” said Hatta, still mesmerized by his royal purple hair. “That always seemed the strangest word because it actually means out of sanity. Shouldn’t someone who’s
in
sanity be very sane?
In
means
out
. Curious.”
“And they think we’re the mad ones,” laughed the smiling Cheshire Cat.