Total length: 62585 words / 267 minute read. (Mind you, that’s the +
Total length: 73812 words / 315 minute read. (Mind you, that’s the length of this entire page, including all the extra bits and bobs. Not just the story.)
-There have been 196 messages posted over 187 days since the first -post on July 13, 2022 for a daily post rate of 1.04.
+There have been 199 messages posted over 188 days since the first +post on July 13, 2022 for a daily post rate of 1.05.
This is a game that me and the kids in the basement are playing over email.
@@ -515,7 +519,7 @@ Set, Mountain Range Glyph Ink, Bead of the WerehareNote: This story by mio was originally published in +issue 6 of the tilde.town zine, and is included here with the author’s +permission.
+https://tilde.town/~zine/issues/6/html/mio/bean/
+~
+++This short story is dedicated to ~dozens.
+Several months ago he spoke of a tabletop game +that involved growing cats from beans, inviting others to try it and +share their actual plays. As it happened, someone read the message and +played the game, but the narrative that was supposed to accompany the +results never materialised, having fizzled out in a desolate +post-apocalyptic landscape before it had barely started.
+Here instead is a story about growing, cats and beans, not +necessarily in that order. Discerning readers will observe its setting +is loosely based in a different game, the wonderful Basement Quest of which +~dozens is the amazing author and thoroughly adept game host. He has +also kindly given permission to reproduce my tiny tale of tomfoolery +under the CC-BY-SA +license. The story would not have existed without his support and +the patience of fellow players, though any lapses in judgement for +churning out complete drivel are mine alone. Gratias +maximas.
+mio
+
Deep within the bowels of the bustling city of Vay’Nullar was a +building like every other and none other. The unassuming brick structure +stood to one side of Cofe Street, so named after a giant automaton that +had once occupied an empty plot of land for the sole purpose of selling +coffee and the wonders of mechanical ingenuity before it broke down one +day and the lot, overrun by weeds, was turned into an apothecary. There +was no sign above the entrance to announce itself to the world, the +windows shuttered and the wooden door bolted from within. It could be +said that there was nothing remarkable about the building except for a +colourful row of marching kidney-shaped beans painted in bas-relief than +ran along the base of the tiled roof. The beans’ faces were contorted in +various expressions of merriment, from hopping up and down with silly +grins to flipping on their backs, eyes screwed tight and mouths wide +open in laughter.
+No one actually knew for sure if it was a shop, or what it sold, +because the doors had never opened for business. Passers-by can be +forgiven for thinking it was probably an ill-fated foray into fame and +fortune by some enterprising young upstart that had floundered at the +last moment, and the place had long since been abandoned to the cobwebs +of aurs and dust bunnies. However, the neighbourhood’s residents knew +differently. If anyone had cared to ask, they would have recounted in +tense, hushed voices of eerie sounds emanating from the building at +night. Some said they heard loud whooshing noises; others swore someone +or something was lighting crackling bonfires inside, though they had +neither seen light nor smoke from a fire. Still more spoke of a sound — +the more musically-inclined might liken it to a note blown from a long +horn, lowered then abruptly dampened. The children — the ones who were +old enough or secretly sneaked out past their bedtime — would have +simply described it as if a crowd had gotten together in a room and +farted at the same time.
+None of the residents had ever heard nor seen the landlord; as far as +the eldest grannies could remember, the building had always appeared the +way it did. When the city finally sent an inspector to assess the +property after multiple complaints from the most vocal residents, the +man had returned so shocked by whatever he had seen that to this day he +could not utter a syllable, his entire body frozen in fear whenever the +subject of the bean building was brought up. Cursed, was the conclusion +of a guild of wizards three districts over, though one that seemed to +evade their scanners. A few of the bravest and more curious among their +ranks offered to investigate, but never returned with their findings. +Children were sternly warned by their parents to stay away and behave, +or they would be snatched up and eaten by the monster that lived within +its walls.
+One afternoon, a young girl who was studying the painted relief along +one side of the building heard scratching, mewls, then a whimper coming +from somewhere nearby. Following the sounds, she rounded the back of the +building and spotted a grey kitten with light charcoal stripes slumped +against the wall, paws on their furry tummy, with a pinched expression +on their face. As she came closer, she could hear a low gurgling sound +coming from somewhere near its tummy. “Oh!” She exclaimed, her face lit +up in understanding. “Stay here, kitty.” she told the kitten.
+She returned from a nearby shop with a glass bottle of oat milk, two +small dishes and three skewers of tofuna balls. She set the items in +front of the kitten, removed the skewers from the first dish and filled +the other with milk. “Go on, it’s for you.” The girl smiled +encouragingly at the kitten, who stared at her with wide eyes before +pouncing on the tofuna balls. When the kitten had emptied the plates, +they licked their face and paws, then looked up at the girl and mewed +once before disappearing into a small hole in the wall of the building +partially covered by a loose board. The girl tried to peer into the hole +but it was too dark within to see anything.
+The next day and the day after, the girl returned to the same spot +with food for the kitten, who seemed to be expecting her, mewing once +again before retreating back inside the hole in the wall after the meal. +On the fourth day, the kitten was nowhere to be seen when the young girl +arrived. She bent down to fill a saucer with more milk, and found a +single brown bean in it slightly smaller than a cherry potato. She +waited but there was no sign of the kitten. Eventually she left the +offering of food near the hole and went home.
+As the girl lay in bed that night, she examined the bean by the light +of her bedside lamp. She held it up between her thumb and forefinger, +rubbed a thumb against its smooth contours, then clasped it gently +between her palms, gradually warming it as she peeked at it from between +her fingers. After whispering to the bean for some time, she carefully +tucked it under one end of her pillow, and yawning, turned down the lamp +and went to sleep.
+When she next opened her eyes, it was to find herself inside a +gigantic storehouse with a high ceiling that seemed to stretch on and on +into the horizon. One side was lined with glass partitions, some of +which were obscured with thick curtains, while others had curtains +parted aside to reveal the activities of the occupants within. On +another side, separated by a path the width of two streets, was an open +grassy area dotted with large translucent domes, like hazy soap bubbles +on a summer day. The entire area was bright and well-lit even though she +couldn’t make out any significant source of light aside from the little +caddy lamps twinkling from the desks inside the partitions, or the +campers’ lamps inside and around the domed tents.
+A cat wearing bright yellow boots, blue overalls and a construction +hat was beckoning her over. She recognised them as the kitten she had +met in the alley earlier, though now they appeared as tall as her. Just +as she was about to call out and ask where they were, the cat suddenly +appeared in front of her and said eagerly, “There you are! Come along +now!”
+Everywhere she turned, there were now cats in all shapes, colours and +sizes — short, large, skinny, tiny, chubby, striped, spotted, black, +calico, white, brown, grey, and so on. Many were patting rectangular +panels with various tiny buttons on the desks. Some were on all fours or +sitting in various positions in front of stools with small boxes that +made whirring, clicking sounds. After each click, the cats would shift +positions, as if striking poses for some invisible audience. One cat was +mixing and matching several new outfits in light colours. Another was +hugging stuffed toy chipmunk while sorting mushrooms at a picnic table. +A few were holding a burger with an oversized cheese wedge between their +paws.
+Some who were walking around the partitions were also holding mugs, +the aroma of coffee wafting through the air as they passed — except for +one cat whose paws were wrapped around a glass of a clear brown drink +topped with cherries. A cat sped by on a contraption with a handle and +two thin wheels, which emitted tinkling sounds from a tiny, nondescript +box attached to a basket in front of the contraption. They passed a +group of six cats gesturing to a black board covered in numbers and +symbols; one of them chanted something that confused the girl and pushed +a button on one edge of the board, which sprayed water over the surface, +erasing the chalk writing. After wiping the board dry, the cat began +rapidly filling the board with more symbols. When the girl looked over +her shoulder, the board had already washed out the writing, and another +cat had taken up position in front of the board.
+Outside one domed tent, a metal arm was mixing a vat of pink and +yellow cream while a cat sat beside it reading aloud from a scroll. At +the next tent, two cats huddled over a thin, grey bulbous metal stump +placed on a tiny wooden table. The cats seemed to be engaged in a +serious conversation at first; then the girl blinked and they abruptly +dissolved into laughs, thumping the table with a paw and barely +grappling onto the table edge with the other to keep themselves from +tumbling and knocking over the metal rod. A cat reclined against the +frame of a bubble opening and seemed to be intently listening to +something, while a stockpot bubbled merrily on a stove and spewed out +dumplings into a large crusty bread bowl behind them.
+A few steps from the path, a cat hung up pictures onto a pie-shaped +box under the glow of a lamp affixed to their tent. The lamp slowly +changed colours, each new colour followed by strings of words floating +and fading in mid-air like intangible poetry. Behind them, half-hidden +by big rows of vertical posts made of paper tubes, a cat perched atop a +stack of ten thick black writing pads and was writing in a notebook at a +furious pace, only occasionally stopping to bite into a slice of pie +with a light yellow filling. A blue panel displaying several lines of +indecipherable characters flickered occasionally from below. Remotely +she could barely make out another cat stacking containers of different +sizes neatly as they spoke to a sliding black case on a table covered in +tools and fossils. Inside another tent, a cat was moving a small stack +of old boxes with lights blinking blearily through the tent walls and +shuffling them inside an animated green cabinet in the shape of a +possum. As the girl stared, some of the cats grinned at her, and others +waved.
+At random intervals, a group would gather around a large pipe made of +dark grey metal at the base, which gave way to a translucent material at +knee height, towering up before disappearing into an opening in the +ceiling. Venturing closer, she realised the translucent pipe was +actually made of many transparent small pipes with beads of light +passing through them at impossibly fast speeds. As the lights spun +faster, a low purr emanated from the pipe, which became louder and +louder in a roaring crescendo as the group fixed their gazes upwards at +a spot where pipe met ceiling, some clapping their paws to a soundless +rhythm that was nonetheless familiar to them all, until the noise was +abruptly cut off to barely a whine and a chuff once more. The crowd of +cats dispersed as if nothing had happened.
+Further on, another group wielding oversized sporks was shovelling +piles of pea-sized, dark brown beans at a glass pane the size of a large +smoke screen, behind which an ornate fireplace was set over a well-used +hearth. The beans seem to pass through the glass, to be devoured by the +giant blaze that flared and snapped briefly each time it received more +tinder. Some of the cats looked on with somber expressions, and the girl +had the feeling that whatever the fire did was as important — if not +more so — than the stream of lights in the pipes. As the flames +gradually changed colour from blood orange to pale lavender, the group +seemed to relax into relieved smiles and slowed their shovelling, only +halting when the fire had turned a vibrant purple. Her guide gave the +group a thumbs-up before ushering her along the path.
+When they had walked a few score feet onward, the young girl suddenly +noticed almost all the cats in their immediate vicinity had a small +rectangular apparatus on them — whether held in their paws, hanging from +a waist pouch, jutting out from a back pocket, strapped to their caps or +arms, or placed within reach on a nearby desk or table. In that instant, +a resounding chime like a bell rolled across the area where they were +standing. The cats glanced down at their apparatus, which were lit in +varying levels of brightness. Some of the cats looked up at one another +and sported identical grins on their faces. Then, as though following an +unannounced but practised cue, the cats applied light pressure on their +apparatus. For a moment it was quiet, before the hall erupted into a +very loud raspberry. It was as though a giant balloon had deflated over +their heads and air was coming out of it in one big gush, only there was +no strong burst of wind to blow them all off their feet. Distantly she +heard the answering giggling of babies and children somewhere around +her, though there were no infants or other children in sight. The cat +with the yellow hat turned to her with a chuckle and said, “Snazzy, huh? +Let’s keep this a little secret between us, okay?”
+Before the girl could reply, she awoke with a start in her own room. +It took a moment for her to ascertain where she was as her eyes focused +on the shelf by the wall filled with toys and books, and the morning +sunlight streaming in from the bedroom window. Recalling the cat in +boots, she felt around her pillow for the bean, but her hand only met +soft bedsheets. She shook out her pillow while pushing aside her +blankets, checked the floor and peeked under the bed, but the bean had +disappeared. As she looked around her room, she noticed the mug adorned +with tiny butterflies that she used as a brush holder had been moved +from its usual spot on her desk. She got out of bed and padded barefoot +over to the desk. Instead of one baby potato-sized bean, the mug was +filled with a number of small red beans. Shaking them out in handfuls at +a time, she counted 43 in total.
+The girl smiled. When the time came, she and the beans will be +ready.
+This story by mio, while technically part of the Barefoot +Quackery compendium, stands on its own enough to earn its own entry +in the appendix. I hope you enjoy it as much as we did.
+~
+It had been an accident at first.
+Inky had just returned from the market with two bags of produce and +was halfway up the back stairs when one of the radishes tumbled from its +paper bag and rolled down the steps to land on the ground somewhere near +a first-storey window below. Setting down the bags on the second floor, +Inky went downstairs to retrieve the missing radish, which they found +easily amid light from the open window and a brass lamp next to the back +door several paces away. As they straightened from their crouch with the +vegetable in hand, a movement from the window caught their +attention.
+Illuminated by lamps hanging from the rafters, a large turtle was +rolling on the floor of what appeared to be the restaurant’s kitchens. +As the imp watched, the turtle turned in multiple directions over and +over, gradually stretching out the dough while moulding different +textures onto the surface through the various glyphs and markings on his +shell. Inky was intrigued — they had never seen empanadas prepared this +way before. It reminded them distantly of a retired ceremonial bull +fighter turned pub owner they had met who would sometimes form +cornucopia rolls with his horns to impress the tourists, but still +generally preferred to use his hands or a rolling pin to roll out dough +for other breads. Over the next several days, Inky would pause briefly +to look through the kitchen window before ascending the stairs. +Eventually they were able to watch the empanada-making process from +start to finish, and on some late evenings, observing the way the chef +would frown at a small sample of partly-eaten pastry on a plate, +followed by a sigh, as though dissatisfied with the contents.
+One night, Inky passed through the Milk Market at a later hour than +previous days. The lamps had by then been extinguished, but someone had +left a window open and when Inky glanced in, the kitchen had been +cleaned, a thin sheen of water evaporating quickly on the floors from +the warm air outside, and the wood counter tops shone where they were +worn smooth in some spots. The surfaces which would by day be occupied +by trays of pastries were bare. In that moment, an awful idea took hold +in Inky’s head. Clambering nimbly through the window, Inky entered the +kitchen, carefully avoiding the area where the pastries were rolled out. +They checked the racks of pans and utensils hanging below the cabinets, +the ovens, the iceboxes, then inspected the pantry. After giving +themselves an impromptu tour of the kitchens, including a peek into the +brewing room and root cellar, Inky went out the way they came in what +was to become the first of multiple unannounced visits. The following +night, Inky returned with a small plate of tapas — just a slight twist +on simple fare that could be paired with the ale being sold at the shop. +The plate was left on a table to be later discovered when the chef came +in early to begin preparations for the day.
+The flavours of the tapas gradually increased in complexity, though +not straying too far from the earthy undertones of the shop’s signature +ale. Inky didn’t know if Enrique would even like the little tapas, +though they supposed they could find out one way or another. In a way it +didn’t really matter; the snacks would serve as inspirational aids for +the chef to pick out flavours and combinations for his own pastries. At +worst, if the tapas irritated him immensely, he would likely be too busy +trying to catch the intruder red-handed to be sighing over his efforts. +Inky decided the giant turtle looked better with his annoyance directed +elsewhere. Either way, if the turtle truly wanted to be rid of the +tapas, he was going to have to “up his game”, as the dillball kids in +the neighbourhood would say.
+~~
+A small turtle wearing overalls, a smock and rain boots is sitting on +the grass next to a muddy puddle of water, forming a wet ball in his +hands. Sunlight spills into the forest clearing, illuminating the +turtle’s smock and boots which are covered in dirt and mud. Inky walks +over and sits across from the turtle.
+“Hi, I’m __ , what’s your name?” Inky asks.
+“Enrique,” replies the turtle.
+“That’s a great name. Hi Henry!” Inky greets their new friend.
+The turtle frowns. “My name is Enrique, not Henry,” he says.
+“It is now. Why are you making mud pies, Henry?” asks Inky, pointing +to the slightly lumpy pies stacked neatly a short distance from the +turtle.
+“They’re cool, and it’s Enrique,” the turtle replies, a little +defensively.
+“They are,” Inky agrees, “What’s in them?”
+The turtle gives Inky a funny look. “They’re called mud pies. Of +course there’s mud inside.”
+“That’s not a pie! That’s a crusty …” Here child-Inky struggles to +find words, “crust,” they finish weakly.
+Enrique looks at Inky, unimpressed. “What else would there be if not +mud?”
+“Loads! Fruits, lots of berries, nuts, custards and jams,” Inky +exclaims, picturing the table spread for tea-time. After some thought, +they add, “There’s also mushroom pot, but I don’t know where to get that +yet.”
+“Mushroom pot? There’s no such thing,” the turtle says, +sceptical.
+“There is, I’ve tasted it,” child-Inky insists. “Want to go find +mushroom pot together? We’ll get some blackberries, redcurrants and +sunflower seeds for your pies too.”
+“Fine,” the turtle replies eventually, after thinking it over. “But +you’re wrong about the sunflower seeds. Nobody puts that in their +pies.”
+“Then you’ll be the first to do it, Henry!” Inky laughs. “Race you to +the giant oak with the big nose!” With that, they hurtle off through the +trees.
+“It’s Enrique!” the turtle huffs, but trots towards the direction of +the oaks.
+“Why don’t you ask him?”
+“Because it’ll ruin the surprise! He’ll know in a pinch something’s +fishy,” child-Inky wails a bit in desperation. Lowering their voice, +they finished imploringly, “I got him a pair of mittens after he said he +lost one last week, but I want to make him something he can eat too. +Like food cooked on a real fire. Mud cookies really aren’t very +tasty.”
+The large matronly turtle chuckles, a deep, throaty sound. “No, I +don’t suppose they are,” she concedes. Tapping a claw on her chin in +thought, she blinks a few times then smiles. “But I know just the +thing.”
+~
+“Another five minutes should do it,” Enrique’s mother tells Inky.
+Inky peers into the cob oven at the tapas sitting on a wooden board +with a long handle. “Thank you, Mrs. T.” child-Inky says politely.
+Over the past few afternoons, Enrique’s mother instructed child-Inky +on making a basic bread tapa with three different topping combinations +based on her son’s favourite foods, while Enrique had gone with his +father to visit one of the barley farms that supplied the brewery where +Mr. T. was chief brewer. The results were now bubbling a little as the +enticing smell of tostadas and pepper sauce slowly wafted out from the +oven.
+The lady nods. “It’ll be good for Enrique to have a friend over to +celebrate. He takes after his father, being too serious for his young +age. He’s already learning beercraft from him when he ought to be +outdoors playing with his fellow schoolmates.”
+“Is there anything else I can help with?” Inky asks.
+“It’s all right, dear, I’ll manage. Why don’t you wash up and wait in +the parlour? Enrique and his father should be back from the brewery any +moment now.” She sounds put-upon at the last words.
+At Inky’s curious look, Enrique’s mother explains, “Our birthday boy +wanted to try the ale.” She sighs. “I’d put my foot down but he looked +so disappointed when I objected. Well, I did make his father promise not +to let him get too drunk. Besides,” she adds with a wink, “We spent all +this time baking him a cake and snacks, we can’t have him falling asleep +on us before he’s had any of it, can we?”
+~~
+Inky was avoiding the kitchens downstairs.
+While it had been amusing at first, and Inky was fairly sure they +wouldn’t be caught (it helped that the chef’s routine was awfully +predictable and the staff were even worse, especially that surly +hobgoblin who always sneaked off three hours early on Primedays), they +didn’t really want to end up in Enrique’s bad books or banned from the +shop if he found out. The blood pudding had been a sobering reminder of +the consequences of meddling in other people’s business.
+Still, they could not bring themselves to stay away from the shop +entirely, just as they had been drawn to the weathered sign over the +door and the aroma of bread fresh from the oven mixed with the malty +undertones of robust ale within the first few days when Jarrod had +invited other members of the party to his newly-acquired premises. There +was something almost homely about it, which was strange since Inky +rarely made empanadas (in the strictest sense of the word, though some +breadpunks would argue anything edible with a filling counts) and did +not particularly favour most alcoholic drinks (ink had a wider sensory +range and none of the hangovers, in their opinion) and only imbibed when +an occasion called for it. This feeling carried into the kitchens, with +its wooden counter tops covered in scratches and stains, shelves stacked +a little precariously with sauces and spice jars, and even the gaping +maw of a big stone oven next to the more conventional mechanical oven. +It had to be the most common sight of every bakery on the continent and +yet, there hadn’t been any place quite like it ever since Inky had left +a small town for life in the city.
+So it was in the evenings when Enrique was most likely busy in the +kitchens or in storeroom taking stock of supplies for the next day that +Inky would visit in the guise of a tea seller, either to put in a larger +order for whoever of their party was around upstairs or have supper in a +shadowed corner of the restaurant. At the latter times, Inky would +request different items from the previous day, partly to not draw +attention from the kitchen, as well as to keep things more interesting +for a little game they liked to play which involved coming up with +various inks to complement the evening selection in the time it took to +eat it. Sometimes, when mulling over new produce from the market, Inky +would also try to rearrange the current dish in their head, replacing +ingredients and preparations until it resembled nothing like the crispy +delectables of the original. Inky wouldn’t really do that to the +empanadas with actual ingredients, but it was funny to picture the +turtle’s annoyed expression at the very thought anyway.
+When Inky was satisfied they had an answer for inks depending on the +most recent harvest and season, they would sit for a while, back to the +wall and glass of kale juice in hand to idly survey the room or +half-listen to the breadpunk gang debate the merits of quick rise yeast +over traditional starters. The staff (whose names and shifts Inky had +long since obtained for security reasons and definitely not because they +were a little obsessed) were probably used to customers of all sorts, +including reticent ones, and mostly left Inky to their meal. Leaving a +decent tip (and on one occasion, a tea-based poultice for a waitress who +had been holding her left arm at an awkward angle the entire time, with +pictorial instructions for its application sketched on a sheet of fine +notepaper), Inky would depart with a small bag of treats for their +marketing manager before the shop’s proprietor emerged to check on the +dining area and chat with his regular customers.
+Said marketing manager also became Inky’s quality assurance tester, +and was rewarded with an extra sample of each tapa recipe that met the +duck’s discerning taste. Only recipes that had the duck’s stomp of +approval were delivered by hare mail to the Emporium. It didn’t see a +need for the recipes to be put through the post — the shop was right +below their feet! — but Inky had gone to the post office each time and +even spoke in rabbiton to one of the delivery workers there.
+Gradually, however, the duck noticed something strange — the more +Inky had dinner at the shop downstairs, the fewer and farther in between +the recipes came, until they eventually stopped appearing altogether. +Initially it had tried to remind Inky by stomping its foot and nudging +their hand with its beak, but Inky had only smiled wanly and said they +didn’t have any good ideas right now. The duck began to suspect this was +patently false when, while following Inky around on a trip to the market +one afternoon, Inky had opened to a page in their notebook to jot down a +few words. Hopping up onto a wooden crate to get a better view, the duck +saw the notebook was almost completely filled with ingredient lists, +preparation steps and extensive notes.
+It looked up to admonish Inky, and saw the rabbit imp was staring +wistfully at a barrel of pimientos. When the duck looked back again, the +expression had vanished, as did its owner, who had already crossed to +the other side of the road and was walking at a brisk pace towards a +juice stand. The duck gave an indignant quack and hastily waddled after +them. How is a marketing manager to keep up when the recipe developer is +twelve steps ahead of the process?
+“How did you do on the writing homework?” the turtle asks the +imp.
+They are sitting at their favourite spot in the forest clearing — or +rather, Enrique is leaning back against a tree with his knees partially +drawn up, while Inky is sprawled on their back on the grass gazing at +the clouds overhead, the schoolbooks next to Inky’s head momentarily +forgotten.
+“I don’t know. I only know you wrote that you plan to be an ale +brewer.” Inky replies airily.
+Enrique looks down at the imp. “How did you know?”
+“It’s written on your face, Henry. Literally. There’s still hops pulp +on your forehead. I’m sure you’ll get a good grade though, most of the +teachers like boring bottle answers like that.”
+The turtle glowers at the imp’s chuckle and swipes at his own +forehead.
+“What did you write?” he retorts.
+Inky does not immediately respond.
+“Well? What did you write?” he asks again.
+“Invisible Ninja Kookie Yulestarter.”
+The turtle blinks, slowly. “What— what’s that?”
+“I don’t know.” replies the imp.
+“You don’t know?” Enrique echoes, perplexed.
+“I just made something up. How would I know what I want to be in +two-score years? It’s not like I’ve met and had tea with future +two-score-year me. Next year I’ll be an Intergalean Neuestar Kickback +Yorkie for sure.” Child-Inky nods at Enrique sagely.
+“You really are something.” The turtle shakes his head in +exasperation, though a small smile appears on his face.
+“A terrible infant? That’s old news, Henry.” laughs the imp.
+“Telling the truth never gets old.”
+Inky pouts. “Ouch. You win. But only because it was a quote from your +mother.”
+“Finish up your homework. I’m going back to the brewery soon to check +on the new batch.” Enrique gets up and brushes off his clothes.
+The imp gives him a pointed look. “Yes, Hen-reek.”
+~~
+“Henry—” Child-Inky pleads.
+The young turtle looks extremely frustrated, almost angry. “For the +umpteenth time, it’s Enrique! See, that’s your problem. You have no +respect for other people’s wishes and boundaries. Everything is a silly +little game to you. Can’t you be serious for once?”
+“Okay. Are we seriously going to the play—”
+“No.” says the turtle firmly.
+They are standing at the dark iron gates leading into the brewery. +Enrique has finally exited a huge building after Inky had stood for half +an hour outside repeatedly yelling his name. But no matter how +child-Inky wails and pouts, Enrique has still refused to accompany him +to see the new garden play being performed in a field of scorpion +grasses up the road from the forest.
+“Why not?” Child-Inky asks, head tilted to one side, not +understanding.
+“Because I have things to do at the brewery. A new dryer has arrived. +Father is going to show me how to use it and I need to get the moisture +levels right.” The aspiring brewer seems to be at the end of his +patience.
+“But we haven’t done anything fun together for a whole fortnight!” +Child-Inky protests.
+The turtle wipes his forehead with the back of his hand. “I don’t +have time to trawl around the forest anymore.”
+“You’re saying that now, but I’ll come by tomorrow and we can go see +it then,” child-Inky says anyway.
+“No.”
+“The day after tomorrow?” asks child-Inky hopefully.
+“No.”
+“The tomorrow after tomorrow?”
+“No means no. This isn’t the time for fun and games.”
+“What if I don’t come back tomorrow? Will you go see the play with +me?” Inky asks, eyes watering and expression wobbly.
+“That’s not how it works. Go home, __. I have to get back inside to +check on the boilers.” The turtle turns and walks along the path back +into the building.
+“Then I’ll come the day after the day before tomorrow!” Child-Inky +calls after him.
+“You didn’t say no, is that a yes? Henry!”
+~~
+Blurriness, gradually coming into focus in the form of an elderly +man’s face with thin eyebrows, kind brown eyes, round spectacles and a +concerted frown on the unfamiliar features.
+The man spoke slowly. “I see you’ve finally woken up. What’s your +name, little one?”
+“I—I …” The imp winced as a sharp prickling pain in their head made +itself known at the sudden movement, followed by confusion and alarm +when they attempt to answer the man’s question and drew a blank.
+“It’s all right, easy now, nib.” said the elder as he helped the imp +sit up with some rustling of bedclothes. “How are you feeling?”
+“A bit sore but … okay? What … happened?” asked the imp.
+“We found you two days ago on the river banks right outside of town. +Some of the fisherfolk say there was a flash flood from a big storm a +few hundred miles up the rapids which washed collapsed buildings and +other debris downstream.” The man explained.
+“Then where … where am … ?”
+The old man smiled. “Welcome to the township of Waterlan.”
+~~
+“I’m sorry, Mr. Iridis. I haven’t recalled anything yet.” The imp +said sadly to the ink craftsman as they sat at the small table over +dinner. It had been almost a week since the elderly man had taken in the +imp and assured them they could stay as long as they wished.
+Mr. Iridis was unperturbed by the news. “Hmm, well, we should still +call you by name in the meantime … how does Inkulos sound?”
+“Uggghhh!! That group of flaming owes were such noisy slobs. Dropping +chunks of bread everywhere on the floor, squawking at a hundred decibels +a minute, then accidentally scorching the table. Why can’t we have more +customers like the Swanson family?” Marnie groaned, tail twitching in +irritation as she rubbed her temples.
+“Or that tea seller,” added Gil sympathetically.
+Enrique hadn’t heard from old Takao in a long time. The elderly, +jovial tea merchant who previously came with his partner and parakeet on +weekends had retired a few years earlier to his ancestral home in +Rana’For Valley. Maybe they had returned to visit relatives in the +city.
+“Tea seller?” He turned to his head waiter, a portly frog named +Gilgamesh.
+“Yeah, they’ve been coming almost daily for the past couple o’ months +now when they didn’t disappear for a week or two in a row. Don’t talk +much but tip pretty well for a street vendor. Even left us free samples +a few times. Marnie said the pepperwood blend did wonders for her +headaches. I’m not a tea drinker, y’know, but she made me a cup once and +it was definitely the real deal. Not the horse piss those shady asses +over at Normington Mews try to pass off as tea.”
+It wasn’t Takao, but someone new in the district. Months? How had he +not noticed before?
+“How does this tea seller look like?” he asked.
+“Short imp, dark eyes, kinda young? Wears a brimmed hat, carries +around a tea flask and a wooden box. One of my neighbours saw them a few +weeks ago at a market and thinks they’re half-rabbit, but he says stuff +like that about half the people he meets anyway.”
+Enrique frowned. He knew all his regular patrons, young or old, and +was sure he would remember seeing someone who fit the description.
+On further questioning his wait staff, he found out a few more things +about them: they usually came around the same time most evenings when he +was in the kitchens; had no particular menu preferences that Gil or +Marnie could name (which was unusual, even the most adventurous of his +customers reverted to a few personal favourites after some time); sat at +the same corner table, the one he himself made use of occasionally on +slow days where he could have an unobstructed view of the room and out +into the street; and sometimes ordered enough for a gathering of +associates, who did seem to have more distinct selections.
+He had seen his share of tight-lipped customers who were only there +for a hot meal before or after a gruelling day of work and he was not +one to pry. However, word of this new tea seller had piqued his +interest. Maybe he’ll buy them a round and have a look at their +offerings. While ale would always remain his pride and joy, he did enjoy +a good steaming cup on some of the coldest days of the year.
+Time for tea and a new acquaintance.
+~~
+The tea was excellent.
+It was easily the best tea he’s had since Takao and Kaiya had moved +away from the city and were unable to find a successor before they left. +He ended up procuring more than he may have originally expected after +sampling five different teas, including two recommended by the vendor, +and found them all very pleasant, one even lightly invigorating. The tea +seller, who went by the name Inky, was mild-mannered and polite as they +described each blend in turn and answered questions about its origins. +However, the imp had declined payment for the teas and when pressed, had +mumbled some excuse and looked as though they wanted to leave. +Eventually Enrique got them to accept some ale from the shop with a bit +of haggling.
+Enrique had begun their conversation by introducing himself and +inquiring about the meal earlier, whether his new regular had anything +they liked in particular from the menu. Inky had responded positively, +but seemed genuinely confused by the second question and only repeated +“everything”. After tea tasting, the topic had turned to the daily +running of the shop and the effects of the late barley harvest this year +on the breweries and their products. As a brewer himself, he was always +keen to talk about his ales and beercraft in general, and was only a +little startled when after some time, Gil appeared at their table to let +him know the staff were done with cleaning and bid him goodnight.
+To his surprise, Enrique found himself a little reluctant to chase +out his new frequent customer so he could close the shop for the day. He +turned back to his guest apologetically, but the tea seller had gotten +the waiter’s hint and was already on their feet with their flask and +box. The imp thanked him, gave a quick little bow and was out of the +shop in two blinks of an eye.
+The turtle stared after the closed doors for a moment, then returned +to clearing away the tableware. Rinsing out their glasses, he collected +the bills left on the table, counted them, and mentally shook his head. +Little wonder his wait staff were so amenable to the tea seller’s +presence — it was enough to pay for a nice full-course dinner for two. +Normally he would bristle at a potential insinuation that he was not +paying his staff properly, but was oddly calmed at the sight of the +boxes still sitting innocently on the table, almost as though he’d just +had another cup of peppermint tea. Ridiculous, he told himself, and +turned off the lights.
+~~
+“Why do you keep calling me Henry?” Enrique eventually asks as they +walk though the forest on the way to his house. The imp is facing him as +they trot backwards along the path, but at his question they turn and +skip ahead a few paces before replying.
+“Because.”
+“Because … ?” The turtle prompts.
+The imp says matter-of-factly, “Either your name’s Henry or it’s too +long. Would you like to be called Too Long?”
+“No, but learning to call someone by their name properly wouldn’t +hurt.” Enrique says evenly.
+The imp spins around and comes to stand in front of him, hands +clasped behind their back and leaning right into his personal space. +“Yes, it would, Henry. How would you like people calling you ‘Julienne’ +all the time?”
+“I don’t see anything wrong with that. Julien is a good name,” he +replies honestly.
+The little imp wrinkles their nose. “It’s irritating. They never +pronounce it correctly. I’m not a bunch of little matchsticks.” They say +peevishly and take a short step back, arms crossed.
+“Is that why you keep changing your name every other week?” the +turtle wonders.
+His friend swings their arms to and fro as they resume walking, this +time on tiptoe. “I haven’t changed it yet. It’s just written +differently,” they reply, bottom lip jutting out slightly and looking a +bit thoughtful.
+Enrique recognises the expression as one that would appear whenever +the imp was about to say something outlandish, and is proven right the +next moment when the imp suddenly smiles.
+“Aren’t you going to ask how?” The imp hops from side to side, as +though jumping across invisible holes in the dirt.
+The turtle sighs internally. “All right, how is it written this +week?”
+“J-o-u-l-e.” His friend recites proudly.
+“That’s … different.” Enrique says consideringly.
+“Obviously.” The imp seems pleased with their announcement as they +shift into step next to Enrique along the path.
+“Didn’t you say you were only changing the way it’s written?” Enrique +points out, and is rewarded with a cheerful reply.
+“Nope. Changed my mind just because you asked. You’re welcome.”
+~~
+Over the course of several months he got to know more about his new +tea supplier, partly from the imp themselves and mostly through rumours +and hearsay from his other regulars, though what he’d learned only +brought more questions.
+He knew Inky occasionally departed the city on some business, joining +a caravan with other travellers that went up and down the countryside to +restock as well as hunt for new items and products. This Inky had told +him once after they had been gone for almost two weeks and returned with +a particularly zesty blend of citrus maghrebi. The imp had been adamant +that it was a gift, and although Enrique had protested mildly at first, +he was grateful nonetheless.
+When the tea seller was in the city, they would peddle on the streets +during the day around various districts including some of the poorest +neighbourhoods, though from what he was hearing from other diners, they +were succeeding at handing out more cups of tea than they were at +selling them. They didn’t have a shop or trading office that he was +aware of — he had tried asking for directions or an address where he +could request a new supply, but the imp assured him with a quirky little +smile they would come around regularly to take orders for their special +tea enthusiasts.
+The lack of an address was bewildering. Surely with tea of such +quality and the right customers they could afford rent for a small nook +at the docks, or even near the shopping districts if they were serious +about their trade? Moreover, what kind of tea seller gives away their +wares freely like that? The imp’s attire, while clean, was worn in +several spots and had clearly seen better days, yet they had no +compunctions about any of the menu items nor problems settling the tab +afterwards. Maybe they were some type of mercenary who dabbled in a side +business. If a customer did not wish others to be privy to what they did +out of the city, he would leave it be.
+Their menu selection was another puzzler. Enrique looked forward to +the tea seller’s arrival and had made a point of getting some of his +next-day preparations out of the way a little earlier so he could talk +briefly with the imp on less busier evenings. However, after months of +conversation he was still no closer to finding out what this regular +customer of his liked. Inky seemed to order anything with no discernible +pattern in the way some diners would always order a herb bake on +Liandays, only that they never ordered the same dish to the day before, +and rarely the same dish more than once a week.
+He did often have customers who relished variety, and this had been +an impetus for Enrique to endeavour to come up with novel breads and +recipes that would draw a new crowd and occasionally offer a bit of +excitement for his repeat customers. Lately he had been trying out +variations of the little elf’s most recent recipe, but something was +lacking. Offhandedly he mentioned his problem of the missing ingredient +to the tea seller one night as the latter made their way through one of +his carrot and cucumber loaves. Inky had merely looked at him and said +“shishito”. At that moment he was called away with another customer’s +request, but after all the patrons had left, he remembered their +conversation earlier and went back to his recipe, this time adding the +suggested peppers. The resulting flavours melded wonderfully — he had +hit upon a winning combination.
+The next evening he prepared a small plate of his new empanadas for +the tea seller to try, but the imp did not appear.
+It had been some time since he had heard from the little elf, as +Enrique had taken to calling them in his mind. The tapas had stopped +appearing, replaced with delightful recipes by mail from wherever it was +helper elves went between visitations (the letters had no return +address). Meanwhile the brewer busied himself with expanding his +selection of empanadas through the recipes, even adding a new kale +telera in a stroke of inspiration.
+More concerning was the fact that it had been at least several weeks +since he had seen or heard from the tea seller. All manner of strange +folk passed through his shop from time to time, so he shouldn’t be +surprised the tea seller may have decided to move on to another city +altogether. Still, he did feel a pang of disappointment at losing good +company, or the way the imp had left without so much as a farewell. +There was something about the tea seller that he couldn’t place that +came with the ease with which they would talk of various subjects, from +beer-making to the pilgrims who would stop in at the shop +occasionally.
+On his way back from the market on one of his few days off when the +shop was closed, he passed by the post office and was struck by a sudden +thought. He went inside and showed the rabbit postmistress on duty the +last message he had received (he had taken to carrying one or two of +them on him for new ideas whenever he went to the market) and inquired +about the sender. The postmistress was initially reluctant to answer on +account of customer confidentiality, but after hearing his concern over +the plight of his little elf friend, eventually relented. She recognised +his shop address and was able to recall the appearance of a half-rabbit +whose description matched the tea seller. Enrique walked the rest of the +way back from the post office to his shop, thinking hard.
+Stunned bemusement soon gave way to vague worry — it was unlike the +tapas chef to go silent for long without a leaving message, usually +accompanied by a recipe. If the tapas chef and tea seller were the same +person, it was possible they had gone with one of those caravans and +something horrible had befallen them on the journey. He sighed and threw +himself back into his ales and pastries with a single-minded focus, +trying not to dwell on the possibility the imp might not return.
+~~
+“Enrique,” his mother called.
+When he appeared in the doorway of the kitchen, his mother hesitated +before she said, “I have some upsetting news, dear.”
+“Mrs. Sapaverde came by earlier. She said one of the mill workers saw +a small imp at the bottom of the hill from the brewery on her way home +before the storm. The worker tried to warn the imp about the storm, but +the child insisted they had to meet someone at the brewery.”
+His mother was looking at him now with concern in her olive-coloured +eyes. “We think it may have been your friend looking for you, not +knowing the brewery was closed because of the weather.”
+Enrique stilled. His father along with the other brewery employees +had been anticipating the storm and had stayed late the day before +carrying out preparations — elevating crates and barrels, tying down +equipment, stacking sandbags, checking the waterproofing and other +tasks. Before they left for the night, the employees were advised not to +come in the next day due to possible flooding and mudslides. They had +later learned the area around the hill had been flooded for the better +part of two days. Fortunately the brewery sat atop of the hill and was +mostly spared from damage aside from a small amount of rainwater in +several rooms and some spoiled dry stock. Everyone had been aware of an +impending thunderstorm and would have done the reasonable thing and +stayed home … or so he thought.
+“Thanks … for telling me, Ma.” He managed after a moment, and was +instantly brought into his mother’s comforting hug. His mother +eventually let him trudge back to his room with a mug of cocoa and milk +roll in hand.
+The first night he didn’t have to return from storm cleanup at the +brewery and immediately fall asleep from exhaustion, he dreamt of an imp +at the gatepost, and of teatime, bears and tuckleberry jam.
+~~
+“QUACK!”
+A small yellow duck was standing in the open doorway of his shop and +looking directly at him while he was checking on the ale taps, almost as +though it was beckoning him. As he came closer, the duck hopped out of +reach and onto the street, looking from him to a spot next to the shop +and back again, staring at him. When he was standing just outside the +building, the duck nipped at his tunic, then padded towards a set of +stairs that led up to the Milk Market on the second floor. It turned +back and looked at him.
+Thinking perhaps his affable landlord wished to speak with him and +had sent a messenger, Enrique followed the duck up the stairs into a +spacious landing with a corridor with a series of rooms along one side, +and another that led to what appeared from a distance to be a larger +area with big vats. The duck waddled down the corridor into a room at +the end of the hall.
+The brewer walked into what looked like a cross between a small +office, a shisha den and a bath stall. At one end of the room was some +sort of wooden tub filled with water attached to a mushroom sprinkler, +and a thick towel laid out on the floor. Next to the tub in the corner +was a short chest of drawers with all the drawers pulled out, like a +staircase leading nowhere, and stuffed woollen carrots, toys and other +objects peeking out. A chia plant with some of its leaves chewed off sat +atop the chest. Croutons, a bag of candy worms with its contents +half-spilled onto the floor, crumpled notes, an oval wicker basket, +cushions of all shapes and sizes on a tartan rug, a writing block with +notepaper, a quill case, an uncorked bottle of ink and a small stack of +books were scattered about the room.
+In the midst of the carnage sat the imp, hatless, cradling a cup of +tea and looking dejectedly out the open window at the foot traffic +passing through the alley below. The sight brought back a distant image +of rainy afternoons and a child’s face pressed against the window of his +old bedroom, as though they could will the rain to stop if they stared +long enough.
+He would recognise that sulk anywhere.
+The eyes that turned to him in surprise (chased by a slight edge of +panic, though it was gone before he could be certain), outside the dim +recess of the shop and lit by broad daylight coming from the window, +were a startling deep blue. A colour he had many memories of in a +different place and time.
+“Joule?” he called out disbelievingly.
+“Hullo Enrique,” his irritating, impish friend replied sheepishly, +casting their gaze downwards, though not before sending a tiny look of +betrayal at the duck’s retreating form.
+Relief, amazement, annoyance and a myriad other emotions flashed +through him and for several beats he was at a loss for words. He +eventually settled for rightful indignation.
+“You!” he groused. “Why didn’t you send word that you had returned? +Even Gil thought you’d tripped over a rock and broke your neck out in +the country somewhere! Have you been right here above my shop the entire +time?!”
+“Not the entire time, I just got back last month and …” the imp’s +attempt at an explanation trailed off under Enrique’s reproachful +glare.
+“And if you had the gall to break into my kitchen, you can sure as +well have the guts to show your face and own up to it.” Enrique bit +out.
+They remained silent for a long time, the turtle’s bulky frame +filling the room as he stood with folded arms and a heavy frown a few +steps away from the entrance, and the rabbit imp on the floor looking +thoroughly chastised with a half-empty teacup and legs tucked beneath +them.
+Enrique finally spoke. “You’re a terrible adult.” There was no heat +to the words. When the imp didn’t respond, he continued, “Come down +downstairs to the back when you’re done here, and bring some of that +pepperwood if you have any. Marnie’s been hankering for more, and I +suppose I wouldn’t mind a cup myself after this.” He gestured with one +arm around the room. “If this is your trading post, I can certainly see +why you don’t invite your customers here.”
+“It’s my marketing manager’s office.” Joule, or Inky, as they were +now known to the locals, had started picking up stray bits of paper and +books and was clearing a path through the litter from window to +doorway.
+“You have a marketing manager?” Enrique asked.
+“QUACK!” The duck had re-appeared at the door and was looking at Inky +expectantly.
+“Five more minutes, okay?” Inky said to the duck. To Enrique, “It +wants its bath and basket chair back.” The candy and croutons had been +scooped up into a small pumpkin-shaped metal bucket and set next to the +chia plant.
+Enrique stared at his friend in bewilderment after the duck wandered +off again. “Your marketing manager is a duck.”
+“Yes?”
+“How do you have a duck as your marketing manager?”
+Inky shrugged. “It followed me back and we made a deal.”
+The turtle was unconvinced. “You mean you roped it into following you +back.”
+“Have it your way if you must insist on rewriting history, but for +the record there is no forced labour involved and it gets all the +benefits and perks.” As they talked, Inky opened the writing block lid +(actually the tea seller’s wooden box now that Enrique had a closer +look), pushing aside items inside before extracting two bags of fine tea +leaves which they tossed at the turtle, who fumbled a bit but caught +them. With Inky’s teacup, books and quills packed away, they left the +room to a mildly disgruntled duck who waved at them before strutting +inside for a well-earned nap.
+Enrique looked around the hallway leading to the stairs. “Is your +office also on the same floor?”
+“No, don’t need one.” said the imp as they descended the stairs.
+He frowned, but before he could ask, Inky answered his unspoken +question. “I don’t sell tea, Enrique.” The ale brewer was about to argue +the point when the imp’s words abruptly came back to him: Please +consider it a gift. He turned to Inky and found his friend already +watching him from the bottom step. Waiting.
+A grin slowly spread over Enrique’s face. “That’s a pity. I was just +thinking my tea seller might want to try my new line of empanadas on the +house after making the deliveries.”
+The imp only rolled their eyes. “Great. So your diners won’t have to +turn into skeletons to get their bread after all.”
+The giant turtle chased the laughing imp all the way back to the +kitchens.
+Enrique looked up from checking on the walnut bread in the oven when +Inky walked in accompanied by an unfamiliar face. A toque, newly arrived +to the city by the looks of it, he guessed.
+After depositing a small box on one of the worktables, Inky settled +atop an icebox and waved the visitor to a wooden stool nearby. Enrique +greeted them both before closing the oven door again and stepping +towards the worktable. “What brings you into my kitchen today?”
+Inky gave the chef a serious look that was immediately undermined by +the humorous tenor in their next words. “I bring you a problem.”
+Enrique snorted. “Just one?” he asked, but a small smile quirked on +his face nevertheless. He opened the box to preview the contents and +found one of his favourite blends. He set it to one side of the table +for later.
+“For now. This one,” Inky gestured to the toque next to them looking +around at the loaves cooling on the racks with barely concealed +excitement, “has never had an empanada in their life. And they have the +gall to call themselves Bread!”
+Enrique shook hands with the toque. “Hi Bread, I’m Enrique. +Unfortunately the troublemaker is right, you must try them. Made by hand +as they have always been from the first day, every one of them!” +informed the chef with a definite note of pride in his voice. He handed +Bread a pair of enticing golden brown pastries wrapped in a paper sleeve +from a tray kept warm on a broiler.
+To Inky, he said, “So you wanted me to give them a quick demo?”
+Inky grinned as they replied, “Even better, have you thought about +taking on an apprentice? Bread here is a sturdy hand, hard worker and +keen to learn.”
+The empanada chef stroked his chin with a thumb and fore claw +thoughtfully. “Well, I suppose I have, actually. The nut breads we +talked about have been flying out the door so fast I can barely keep up. +At this rate I’d need another one of me to get more out there!” He +chuckled.
+He looked at Bread again, assessing. “When can you start? We’ll be up +early to get the dough going and all the ingredients prepared for a long +day. How about we begin with the basics, see where you’re at, and go +from there?”
+~
+Inky had left with Bread shortly after the latter had further +introduced themselves and they had arranged for the toque to return the +following week. Although Enrique had reiterated it would be on a trial +basis initially, he had a good feeling about the new hire. Maybe it was +the way the toque’s eyes lit up at their first bite of empanada. The +fact that this was someone Inky had casually dragged in should set off +all of his mental alarms. Still, despite his friend’s often flagrant +disregard for anything inedible, they could be very observant when they +wanted. Clearly they had seen something in the toque’s character to +recommend them personally.
+He was already going through lesson plans in his head, and was so +engrossed in making a list of things to gather for his new apprentice +that when he turned around to grab a pair of oven mittens, he had to do +a double-take. There, on the icebox that the imp had recently vacated, a +small green turtle stared back at him from where it sat on a +cocoa-coloured pie slightly wider than the turtle. On closer inspection, +the ensemble appeared to be a cake decorated with cream and dark +chocolate buttons for eyes, set on a round wooden plank lined with +parchment. Under the plank was a note in the now-familiar crisp blue +lettering: “ENJOY YOUR TERRAPAN :)”
+Enrique huffed out a laugh. He already knew what he would find on the +other side of the note without turning it over. Pocketing the slip of +paper carefully in his apron, he went to get a knife and plate to help +himself to a slice of delicious mud pie.