NEWDIE STEADSLAW

Traycup led the way past the gate, across the bridge spanning the moat, up the winding steps that climbed the hill, and through the hedge maze at the front door of the house of Old Missus Lopkit, the only house that mattered in Nesodi Iveent. They could already hear all the music. As soon as they were out of sight of the bouncer, Traycup tossed away his sixth grade Field Day participation trophy, and Roby learned to be dazzled by a spherical infusion. Mario and Phillippo were lured by the siren siren of the ice cream, and there was a lot—normal flavors, so not things like ground drywall, or porcupine quills, or the smell of the dirt after a rainy day, or half a grass. Not like that at all. Normal flavors, like, what... nutmeg?

Several party-goers emerged, their unfixable gazes working overtime and coming up empty, and handed Traycup cubed walrus and fried eggplant knuckles and hut cheese, and so everyone, party-goers and party-comers alike, were all distracted from their taxes and paused for snacking and chatting about the latest weather events, movable printing, and new colors. Soon there was a whole great gaggle, all of them saying everything, eating most things and drinking the rest, and they lost track of time, but there was a tall and merciful grandfather clock to keep track for everyone, which it did admirably, and so it was certainly less than thirty years to the minute when Ben Garment found the coatroom after all.

“Shall I part with Polioman all the ready?” he said. “No, that’s been depleted.”

Roby, amongst the party-goers, seized one’s attention by existing too hard, and said to them, “Say, are you one who can say the position of the mother of me, who I am here to see, to wish her today a birthday mostly happy?”

“Old Missus Lopkit?” said the party-goer, whose name wasn’t Clebe Steve. “Why, she’s here with adequate probability! There’s a place for anything, at least!” They leaned close to Roby, and gave her a clever wink, which she didn’t know what to do with, and so she thought about studying sign language, and then forgot just as quickly.

“Say this, Roby,” said Traycup, “what the look of your mother’s like? I’ll to know her by a glance, if I c’n!”

Roby laughed like some antelopes that couldn’t. “The mother of me is the mother of me—how can it be said by me what the look of her may be? I suppose she is like many shapes, and says some words, but does not overlong wait for seconds and thirds!”

Someone came by with a tray full of glasses of punch or drain cleaner or something, and Ben Garment took a glass or two, and then that same someone got upset because they were no manner of waiter at all, but was just some guy getting drinks for his buds.

“Are you stoking a battle?” said the some guy. He put anger on his face, but it stuck as well as magnets to a cloud, and then he laughed and said, “This isn’t a battle-place. You’d have to get lost for that!” He went back under the sink to get more drinks.

“So,” said Traycup, “folk about here’re not the fighting type! That’s a good breather. Let’s get partied, really!”

“Partying is not a thing of me,” said Roby, “and I think that is not surprising! Let us act as friends, and make a small search, and find the mother of me, though it be some work.”

“The lady of the hour,” said Ben Garment thoughtnessly. “I suppose she’s at the center of attention—or entirely removed from it, if she’s had enough.”

Traycup said, “A mom of Roby’s like to b’as like, and there’s a sole spot that Roby likes to b’at! Come and follow slightly, for I’ve a guess made.”

Traycup, Roby, and Ben Garment went upstairs, a task made easy by the house’s roomstyle and stairmakes, low levels and wide arches, the rooms growing as a youth in summer, each decorated and rich, with browns and light, and people, all happy and joyful, greeted them wheresoever they went. The music grew only slightly toward quiet, and some of the more abrasive genres weren’t allowed up here without a chaperone, and there wasn’t so much hut cheese as there was unbound pasta—but they knew the party still had them well in its grip.

“Roby,” saith Traycup, “how’d you like to find this spot?”

“This spot gives a lot of thought,” said Roby, “and is not too hot.”

“Point taken!” said Ben Garment. “Let’s push more on.”

They went further upstairs, where it was darker and lighter, and the music gave way to a memory, and the rooms had the many bare blocks, quite soft and inviting, but a treat best served at a time after the end—and so they pressed on, trusting to the guidance of a half-baked idea, and the truth of a heart’s screaming memorial. The house knew only these rooms, and the party stretched on and on, and the further they clomb, the further their own hands seemed. Then they turned and lost the party at last, and found silence, fully dense and filling the crawling spaces. And then, then, finally, at the top, they found just one room, and in it were some comfortable chairs, and it was vividly sunny, the sun shining in all the windows, and it was still and calm, and there was nothing to do—and Old Missus Lopkit was not there.

“Not here! Well, that’s a plan spent.” said Ben Garment. “I guess it was centrally attenuated after all.”

“Roby’s got a stream that ran away with the spoon!” said Traycup without a neck brace.

Then there was a creak as if of a door opening—because a door was opening, because there was a door, for once—and at the other end of the room, there finally emerged the slow low form of Old Missus Lopkit.

“Oh, my!” said Old Missus Lopkit. “I did not expect visitors on this day! It is a pleasant surprise, but truly a surprise indeed!”

“Mother of me!” said Roby with a voice filled with some joy and—well, more could not be said. “I have made a long journey to wish a happy birthday to you, and now I will say it: happy birthday to you!”

All that sunlight that filled the room was dwarfed by the golden glow of Old Missus Lopkit’s presence—if, that is, light could be “dwarfed” in the first place. Perhaps it was “dwarved”. Or perhaps not, for Old Missus Lopkit’s glow was metaphorical, after all, and obviously represented her joyful heart and other such conventions—to say nothing of the unkindness it wouldn’t bear to do in diminishing another’s moment. So the sun shone brightly and specks of dust glimmered in the light like a golden haze.

Old Missus Lopkit gave them all a big hug, which they all carefully put away in their lockers to save for later, when they would need it most, and then they all sat around on couches like clouds while Roby recounted the tale of her adventures, and how she met all her new friends, and became a baroness or something—that part still wasn’t clear and also may not be legally binding.

“An egg cream and a fish and chips?” said Old Missus Lopkit. “This adventuresome life has made a spoilee of you!”

“It is a thing of enjoyableness,” said Roby bashfully, which sounds a lot more violent than it is. “Not at all am I annoyed by all this.”

Roby sat next to her mom as she told the tale with animation—stock footage, but it was still a nice touch—and Traycup and Ben Garment listened, or at least Traycup listened, the picture of politeness, while Ben Garment sipped his air-quotes “beverage.”

At the end of the tale, Old Missus Lopkit smiled warmly and said, “Why, daughter of me, gladness is of me to know the wonderment and joys you have had in your heart, and seeing the good friends you have made. It is quite a tale you have told, and I am sure there will be more to come!”

“More!” laughed Roby. “I should like no more, for such a trek is like a chore—but a journey was promised and so it shall be not missed. But adventure does tiredness to me, and pretending some wildness likewise defeats!”

“Is that so?” said Old Missus Lopkit. “But look at this lad, who you called good Traycup, who has some spry in his step and a wit in his eye! And you and he shall go far away to Oopertreepia, is that so?”

Now Traycup made a nice smile and said, “Good ol’ ma’am, you’re saying some kindness at me! Why, my steps go’t such a pace I can hardly keep up with ’em, but alas, our Oopertreepian schedule finds derailment again and again, and our goal grows cold.”

“We’re no closer than ever,” said Ben Garment, engloomed, “and further than usual.”

“It’s so,” said Traycup.

“It is a fault of me,” said Roby, “that holds back thee. My adventure skills have limitness, and so I slow you down in all of this.”

“Tut! Sayn’t that!” said Traycup. “Roby’s a dear friend, and what’s a job to a friend? Not nearly a thing, that’s what! So put that guilt out of your mind and into an orphan’s cup, for you’ve thrown no stones at me, my pal!”

Roby smiled, and then Old Missus Lopkit said, “Now, Mister Traycup, the words of Roby tell your tale as being for Oopertreepia, but wherefore do you go thither? For Oopertreepia is a secret old place, and quite strange! Not all who go go, and not all who come went. The place sneaks away from those who seek it, and appears as a foil afore those who do not. Isn’t it such an unlovely place for one such as you? What reason drives you so?”

“Alas,” said Traycup, “that’s a secret not to be blabbed! But let me rebound a query your way, if I may, for talking about sneaky strangeness piques a thought in my dusty old mind. Ol’ ma’am, your countenance has a familiarity to me, but surely I’ve never put my feet in Nesodi Iveent, so I’m put to wonder, where at’ve I seen you afore?”

Now, Old Missus Lopkit considered this carefully, for this was a strange question, but before she could answer, Roby piped up. “Oh! Mother of me! A thing is remembered by me. The name of Traycup is in full Traycup Lopkit, so it seems! Knowing why is not had by me, nor he, and so it became a puzzle for we, and we grew stumped and now ask of thee!”

“Oh, so the name of you is Lopkit, as well?” said Old Missus Lopkit. “Traycup Lopkit, who thinks he knows of me! Well, that is certainly a strange thought from a stranger!”

“They are no strangers,” said Roby, “for they bear no danger! We have all become friends, as a means to an end—that being our voyage, meant to be done in joyage!”

“And such friends you have,” said Old Missus Lopkit. “The fine gentleman Traycup Lopkit! What a tale you must have to tell—and tell it you must, it seems to me!” Old Missus Lopkit beamed at Traycup and leaned closer to him. “Say a little, won’t you, about your traveling plans? Is it for work, or simply for the fun of the journey?”

Roby remembered that she had been fired, and was glad her mom was asking this of Traycup instead of her self.

“Would that I were abroad reasonless, but sadly, it’sn’t so!” said Traycup. “I’m bossed, and I’ve a message for deliverment, and Oopertreepia’s the place f’r it, so I’m led to be said at!”

“I’m just here for regular treasure hunting,” said Ben Garment. “The tragic Traycup distracts us as much as he advances!”

“I have no reason,” said Roby, “but time with friends is pleasing, and I am happy to travel so long as plans are well.”

“A good lad you are, Traycup,” said Old Missus Lopkit, “to serve a boss so nobly! But, oh my! Does not the weight of the message slow your steps?”

“Ah,” said Traycup, “fearn’t that! It’s paper-bound, so the weight’s lightly borne!” He patted about his pockets.

Now Old Missus Lopkit sat back and smiled, and said, “I think I’ve heard enough.” She gazed steadily at Traycup as she rocked in a rocking chair—like, whittling-on-the-porch kind of rocking, not rock-and-roll kind of rocking, for Old Missus Lopkit would never do something like that—at least not these days—and even if she did, it wasn’t something one would do sitting down. She was still smiling, but it had become like a too-long stared-at painting.

“It’s so?” said Traycup. “Ah! We should give the mom of Roby some pause so as to catch her breath an amount! Roby and Ben Garment, shall we retreat to the ice creamery?”

“Now, now,” said Old Missus Lopkit. “No need to rush away. Before we begin, I’ve a thing to ask of you.” Now at this time did Old Missus Lopkit spring down from her rocker with great ease, and she stood up before Traycup, up tall, far taller than him.

“If it’s about flower reproduction, I don’t know a thing,” said Traycup.

“It’s not, and I think you do,” said Old Missus Lopkit.

Then without ceremony, Old Missus Lopkit was no longer Old Missus Lopkit, but became the most beautiful lady in the land, with the most beautiful dress in the land, and golden hair and pitch-black eyes—she was Jum Burie, and stood tall and thought deep, and knew nothing and everything about Traycup, and yet was still pressed to press him back.

“Answer this question,” said Jum Burie. “You saw something. Something special. Something secret. Something no one’s ever seen before, and no one was ever meant to see. Tell me: what did you see?”

Roby said something but was unhearable.

Traycup laughed like he’d just read the dust jacket for One Hundred and One Jokes and Jollies for Children or Thereabouts. “Now, I’ve said already, it’s untellable! It’s part of the job, of course, to keep the sights secret, so I willn’t tell you, as I’ven’t told anyone else.”

Jum Burie scoffed and said, “Very well. I only ask to save myself the trouble of killing you and turning your brain to soup.”

This time Ben Garment said something unhearable.

“That’s a promise with bite!” said Traycup. “Now, marbles make for poor soup, and I’ve grown partial to my gray matter’s placement! Ah, but if it’s hunger you’ve to quench, there’s a great trough of ice cream, from which any so inclined may scoop their heart’s content and feast in delight!”

Jum Burie did not hesitate anymore, and although she would never admit to it, she felt like she was not tired enough for this. She took a deep breath and raised all of her hands, and with them came the wind, and it whirled all about her, and on the wind was carried the leaves of far-off trees and the seeds of far-off fruits, and the soil crawled in and lay about in the sun, so that when the seeds were planted and took root and grew into shoots and then stems and then trunks, the leaves swirled about and clung to the trees, and formed a new forest, greater than all that had been before, rising high, tall, in and through and around the house, and the forest cast a great shadow all across the land, its boughs spread wide, its leaves shivering in the gusts, until silence and darkness came in. In the darkness, Jum Burie’s golden hair glowed, and she said, “Now call yourself prey and be hunted.”

Hunteeism was not one of Traycup’s hobbies, and neither was checkers, yet when he found the checkerboard he perused the available moves and finally said, “Rook to ee-seven!” The rook obeyed, since that’s a wholly legal move, and it cawed on its flight, and a nearby flapjacksmith misunderstood this as the signal to break camp and head for the hills, and so he broke camp and headed for the hills, and all his leopards were confused since lunch was being skipped. Traycup motioned to the leopards to join him in the checkers game, but when they saw the pieces consisted of rooks, the four of hearts, and those of eight, they gave Traycup an odd look, an even book, and then jump-kicked him onto a passing barge, where he landed feet first on a cash register.

“I’m not perplexed,” said Jum Burie. “You want to return to the sea? The ocean birthed us too long ago to call us children any longer, but I know about the sea.” Now she drew forth a thousand silver bows and loosed a thousand tin arrows, and they crisscrossed the sky and froze in their places, holding their breath for an eternity, and their shadows fell as blades, slices all across the still land and the raging sea, which in its fervor, cut and wounded itself and fell to pieces, lost its strength, and the barge sank into the deepest of the deeps.

Traycup wasn’t allowed in the deep end—or rather, he wasn’t the last time he’d been in a pool with any supervision, and he had to assume those rules still stood. Either that, or he’s really shallow—y’know, like, personality-wise? The reader is invote to use either one of those as the reason why Traycup didn’t sink into the deep with the barge. But Traycup thought back to all the times he had been invote to people’s hice to play in the pool after school and how he splashed around in the shallow end until it was time to go home, and so he splashed around in the instead sea until it was time to go home.

“Are you waiting for the bus?” sneered Jum Burie.

“Public transportation is a boon to any healthy society,” said Traycup, whose experience with public transportation had been—well, “boon” did not apply.

“Your bus is no more—but don’t look at me. That, at least, was the sharks,” said Jum Burie.

Traycup snapped some fingers and grabbed a crossword. Ess, aitch, ay, are, kay, ess—it was a perfect fit for seventeen down! Now all he needed was the president’s bank account number and three different shades of turquoise, and he’d be able to solve the Riddle of the Spants once and for all. He sharpened a pencil—this would be a doozy. “I bet,” said Traycup, “that three plus three is three—for a given value of three, and that if salami knew its own name, it’d be calling a lawyer right now! But no one’s got time for an after-school special anymore, and even if I could juggle sine waves, who’s going to change the fish’s diaper? Oh, sodium!”

At the petting zoo, they have a little toy train that you can ride, and it goes all through the park—but it only has certain stops, so you can’t just get on wherever you want, even though you could just reach out and climb on—it’s not fast. You’d have to wait until it gets to a marked train stop, and those are already crowded by crowds, and even if you toughed it out and waited, the ride’s slower than just walking there. But, it’s the train. You can’t just not. So you’d wait, and it’d take longer than forever—maybe fifteen minutes, even! Can you imagine? You’d have to, because this never happened to you. Maybe it never happened to anyone. Is there even a train, really? Perhaps it’s just speculation from half a T. V. show you think you saw once. Whose memories are yours, after all? Ninety-nine miles an hour, right?

This nearly scratched one of Jum Burie’s hearts. She breathed—and knew that she would never let her guard down again.

“I,” she said, “yearned long for nothing, never yearned, and have nothing—say your story again until you know it all, and remember every mistake you’ve ever made. You will see before you the blame you have lain upon yourself, hear the curses you have left in your wake, and play judge for your own trial. And now before me I see nothing and all I want is to see nothing—the long darkness will not come for you. All words belong to me.”

The waves rose high, and even the shallows now had become great depths, through only their own long patience. In the water of the deep can all things begin, and in the water of the deep can all things end. Water rises high, and it drowns the sun, and it brings a new path with new orders, and something that may only be a lie. Everyone lies eventually. Traycup had lied and so was a liar and so was now lying in the water, which rose up and bore him as best it could, the will of water and wind. Traycup beheld the edge of the sea, and here he finally forgot everything he had ever known, everything but the sea and the sun and the depthless ocean. He lay in the water, and the sun was upon him, and the water in turn, and the winds came and made safe his blood. Was this truly a violence brought by the beauty? Nay, for this was a known place, a familiar situ’—he knew what to do with the gifts laid before him. He closed his eyes—

And now Traycup was in a cage that was invincible and made out of every metal. The waters receded. The winds quieted.

Jum Burie took the cage with Traycup in it and left.

Nesodi Iveent had broken out in forest and water and was laid to ruin and reclaimed by Nature all in one breath—which was a relatively unusual event, and nothing in the fashion report mentioned anything like this. Those slicing shadows cast by the arrows had carved the land so deeply that it was all churned up and became soft and unwalkable on and collapsed into piles of soil quite unlike its previous existence as useful lawns and streets, but, fortunately, no one was sliced by the slicing shadows since they sliced in squares just big enough for someone to stand in safely. However, the house on the hill where Old Missus Lopkit had lived was no more. All that remained of Nesodi Iveent was the forest woven by Jum Burie in a dream.

Roby and Ben Garment extricated themselves incompetently from a pile of dirts, shattered house-pieces, and some clown shoes that had spilled from a broken main.

“What is it with you and houses?” said Ben Garment.

“Be nice!” said Roby. “It was only twice.”

Top Gee came around and said to Roby, “This is why we don’t let out-of-towners in.” He helped her and Ben out from their stuckage, and moved on to assist other ex-party-goers.

“Well! It is a fine fix,” said Roby, “or finally to be fixed. Oh, fiddlesticks! But where is the eldest Lopkit?”

“This seems as close as is expected,” said Ben Garment, collecting the disguise that formerly posed as Old Missus Lopkit.

Roby pouted and shook her head. “That guise worn by she is not the mother of me. I want for the real thing—not the one who had donned it—so shall we get searching and soon be upon it?”

“That was a fearsome opponent,” said Ben Garment, “that I ill like to face again. And piled upon the defeat, Traycup became a captive of that beauty.”

“We must discage him,” said Roby, “from the so-called beauty, for as friendship is forged, that is our sworn duty.”

“A stolen Traycup,” said Ben Garment, “and a missing Old Missus Lopkit as recompense! And our party’s otherwise further shattered. Whither the gondolier and his faithful steed?”

“We want for much,” said Roby, and then she smiled and went on, saying, “and so we want for naught, for our course is made plain, and I have gained a thought. An idea is of me, so please stay and see what it will be, unless you foresee and swipe it from me!” She was quickly away to put her plan into motion, and Ben Garment shrugged and ran after her.

Jum Burie saw Tuberlone—once again, still a fox, not an aged goat with spectacles and cane—and grabbed it, and threw it into the air, and laughed, and spun around as it tumbled, and threw all of her arms wide, and soaked up the sun, and wrapped her arms around herself and embraced herself, and fell down in the dirt, smiling. Traycup was in a cage that was with her, quite a bit in pieces—which is to say that he’ll be fine, so don’t take that one literally. But Jum Burie was breathing, and with each breath drinking all the air, and growing tangled and fretted. She sprang to her feet and went to the cage and grabbed it, picked it up and shook it, shaking Traycup around, laughing at him.

“Well,” said Tuberlone, “it seems you lucked out.”

Jum Burie, smiling, said, “I told you so!”

“Yes, yes,” said Tuberlone. “All right—that’s enough toying with him. You know what to do.”

“Yes,” said Jum Burie. “I know what I want to do.”

“What you need to do,” said Tuberlone.

“Oh,” said Jum Burie, “yes. I need to. I need to dance.”

Tuberlone, rustlike, did not dignify something as foolish as that with a response.

“I’ve certainly earned it,” said Jum Burie. “Haven’t I? I got what we came for, after all!”

“No,” said Tuberlone. “We came for his information. Not him.”

Jum Burie peered at Traycup in his cage.

“Hi,” said Traycup.

“Who are you?” said Jum Burie.

“Traycup Lopkit,” said Traycup.

Jum Burie laughed and jumped to her feet, and spun around once or twice, and threw all of her arms wide, once again. She ran hither and yon, hopping around, stomping her feet, flapping her arms all over the whole place. It looked an awful lot like dancing—or, perhaps, it looked like an awful dance.

“Stop wasting time,” said Tuberlone.

“We have time,” said Jum Burie. “We have him.”

“Again,” said Tuberlone, “we’re here for his information. Not him.”

Then Jum Burie saw everything at once and then with her wild face said, “Let me dance. I’ll dance and then I’ll sleep, and when I wake, then I’ll eat his brain and know everything he knows and you’ll have your precious information. And everyone will be happy that way. Is that satisfactory?”

“No,” said Tuberlone. “Do it now.”

Jum Burie said, “And if I don’t?”

But Tuberlone had no answer for that. Jum Burie turned back to Traycup.

In her hearts, Jum Burie danced a dance like no one had ever danced before, spinning, jumping, whirling, laughing—throwing herself away with reckless abandon, casting herself off to the only worthy ideal, and making herself part of the wind and the sky, the sea and the soil, and the always-burning sun.