The Porcelain Plate

“We aren’t your common roadside Inn, wife”

“That we aren’t, husband.”

Innkeeper Baldy Pate stood with his robust business partner Mistress Mulch on the highroad outside the neat grey-brick walls of The Porcelain Plate – Fiddlehead Spring’s most respectable roadhouse. No, Fiddlehead Spring’s only respectable roadhouse.

It was a balmy late afternoon with the promise of a windfall.

“We should earn us a couple of well-rubbed copper pieces tonight, wife.”

“That we should, husband!”

Just two hours downwind a dozen caravan pullers hauled on their oxen, stretching the iron rings in their sloppy noses taut. Amongst the carts piled high with bundles of lacquerware, silk, spices and dried seafood rode an elite detachment of Cinnabar troops. Or so the runners’ gossip said. Word was they were riding with an ox file specially commissioned by the Phoenix throne to carry…

“What?” Innkeeper Baldy Pate said.

“I hear this train’s got a southern princess sitting on a teak litter,” said Mistress Mulch. “Any chance they bunk down at The Ninth Paradise? You know, they have sparrow tile tables now.”

“That tatty turtle’s nest? Well, the caravan pullers won’t be able to resist, and no doubt. But let them keep their noisy gaming! We don’t want the rowdy rabble. We want respectability. We want that Cinnabar detachment and the teak litter.”

If the Innkeeper and his mistress had bent and put their ears to the ground they would have heard the thump of road-weary feet picking up the pace. Feet that were eager for a nice hot tea, the crispiest cold garlic cucumber, warmed yellow wines and cool sheets.

“It’s the carp’s luck we have hired us a new attraction just this very afternoon,” Baldy Pate chuckled, rubbing his head. “And what an attraction she is!”

“Just keep your eyes off that one, husband, and I’ll keep my stick off your backside.”

The Conspirators

When you’ve been running from city guard all night and bumping in a horse cart all day what you really want is a smooth bamboo mat and pillow to rest your head.

But Battle Axe and Inkstone had to content themselves with a cup of white tea in The Porcelain Plate’s courtyard garden.

It was the next best thing. The weary companions sipped in silence, listening to the yellow-billed mynas sing out their bittersweet evensong from cages hung amongst the kumquat trees. Glittering goldfish plashed in harmony from a nearby sunken pool.

“Ahem,” Battle Axe interrupted.

Inkstone looked up from his cup.

“So, you have all the blast picks.”

“Yes, all of them.”

“And you know you got to use them when I start throwing around the crackers, right?”

“Clearly, that would be the time to use them.”

“No need to be sarcastic.”

“Well, I’m tired.”

“Still tired? You were snoring so loud in the cart you spooked the horses. Twice.”

Inkstone looked into his cup. “You’re better at this than I am. At least…”

“Better at what?”

Inkstone shrugged. “Never mind.”

“This is the belt thing again, right?”

“No, I’m just tired.”

Battle Axe leaned over with the teapot and filled his cup to the brim. “Drink up, my friend. And remember: boom, boom, boom, crack, boom, hey!”

“Actually it’s ‘boom, boom, boom, boom, crack, boom, hey!’- four booms before you get to the crack.”

“No, you dense northerner. We are singing it southern-style. This is a southern caravan train, we are singing it their way. Got it?”

“Boom,” Inkstone said, staring into his cup.

- – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – -

From the Editor:

Readers, my tale will continue next week. But for background purposes it is important that you first read the fable below. It is the southern version.

//Oriole Burdee

Bracken and Sleet

Once our world was younger than it is now. And during this time there lived a monk named Bracken in the arid wastes of the west.

Actually, his full name was The Venerable Bracken Stump, Sage of the Fourth Level and Master of Vegetarian Dumplings.

Bracken was blessed with a dimpled chin, a noble brow, and an empty heart from years of self-denial (and chive chopping).

Now, the village abutting Bracken’s red-doored monastery was not so blessed. Once the sorghum fields had been lush and green in the summer, rusty red and bursting with grain in the autumn. But for one reason or another the gods neglected the western expanses. And so the farmers and farmers’ wives and all the little farmers’ children languished in dusty despair.

Bracken’s body had no appetites, and his heart felt no desires. But heavy, heavy on him weighed the villagers’ suffering. And so every day he rang his brass bell, lit a bundle of incense and pleaded for the god of rain to spread his showers across the shriveled land, the dried-up sorghum stalks and dusty creek beds.

When that didn’t work he appealed to the god of thunder, then called on the god of wind, even bowed to the god of lightening – perhaps they would tow along some rainfall in their wake. Not a single drop fell from the distant skies.

Finally, his empty heart wrung by the listless children and the old folks bent with hunger he lit up 8 bundles of the best incense, closed his eyes and rang his summoning bell so loudly that it was heard across the village and beyond.

On icicle legs she walks the peaks
Her midnight gaze is wide and bleak
Her hair a wisp of silver clouds
And her frozen gown – a snowy shroud.
Boom, boom, boom,
Crack, boom, hey!

No rain appeared. But the next morning he was awoken by an enormous roll of thunder, rumbling and echoing through the quiet halls of the monastery. Bracken sat up in bed. What was that? Boom, boom, boom. Someone knocking at the big, red door.

When Bracken swung the doors open he saw standing before him…a little slip of a maiden, all alone. Neither a smile nor a greeting had she, only stood before the threshold and gazed at the monk a round-eyed gaze as empty as his heart.

Bracken took her gently by the hand, walked her around to the village. Would anyone have the heart to take in a wanderer? But none of the farmers, nor their wives, nor their children liked the look of the silent creature. They shook their heads, closed their doors, and went back to lying on their brick beds and dreaming of pork stew.

So the monk Bracken paused on the dusty village road and looked close at the maiden – he noticed her silken hair, her delicately detached earlobes. He noticed her cold, alabaster cheek. And her great, grey eyes.

Bracken guessed some difficult guesses, and then he decided a difficult decision. “You are with me now”. The girl blinked once, and then together they made their way in the gloaming through the fields of raspy stalks to the monastery.

And just as the big, red door shut behind them a drizzling rain began to fall on the cracked mud ground, little rivulets of water running into the dusty creek bed and resting gently on the withered trees.

On icicle legs she walks the peaks
Her midnight gaze is wide and bleak
Her hair a wisp of silver clouds
And her frozen gown – a snowy shroud.
Boom, boom, boom,
Crack, boom, hey!

Even through the solid brick walls and the big, red door Bracken and the girl could hear a hundred thirsty villagers shout to the heavens. Bracken ran to his bell and rang it a loud hurrah, hurrah, hurrah. The girl visitor looked on – glowing softly like a grey lantern.

As the weeks and months passed the wasteland was transformed to what it once was – a verdant landscape, fertile fields and ripe orchards.

Together Bracken and the girl swept the monastery floors, brought in kindling from the village, chopped chives for their evening dumplings, and polished the big, red door. Not a word was spoken. But the monk began to push aside the quiet wisdom of his empty heart, and think more and more upon delicate earlobes.

And soon his empty heart was empty no more. A year passed, and one evening Bracken looked out his big, red monastery door and saw the girl walking through the sorghum fields. Her hands were stretched out to touch the golden tassels, and her eyes looked up to the sky.

On icicle legs she walks the peaks
Her midnight gaze is wide and bleak
Her hair a wisp of silver clouds
And her frozen gown – a snowy shroud.
Boom, boom, boom,
Crack, boom, hey!

Bracken felt his heart stirring inside his chest. He felt it pounding and thumping and churning away.

So he pulled off his saffron-colored robes, dropping them into a heap on the monastery floor, and walked out the big, red door. He took the grey-eyed girl in his arms and touched her frosty lips with his.

An enormous crack of lightening split the sky, and just like that the noble-browed monk froze into a block of ice. His body reaching with yearning, his gaze full of feeling.

The silent girl sighed. And then she spoke, “It cannot be undone, this is who I am and ever will be”. With that her body trembled, and stretched up – up – up to the firmament. Her legs grew down – long and cold like sleeting rain. Her hair blew back – the silvery clouds in the upper stratosphere. Her eyes blinked from the heavens – twin stars in the darkening sky.

And that was the end of the village.

For from her feet grew a thousand ice crystals, spreading out like wild flowers in the spring. Covering the monk, covering the monastery, covering the fields and verdant orchards. Covering the farmers, and the farmers’ wives, and all the farmers’ children in a lacy, icy shell.

Then the Goddess Sleet – tall and terrible – turned and headed north.

On icicle legs she walks the peaks
Her midnight gaze is wide and bleak
Her hair a wisp of silver clouds
And her frozen gown – a snowy shroud.
Boom, boom, boom,
Crack, boom, hey!

Don’t think to love the goddess Sleet
Don’t think to touch her frigid heat
Boom! The thunder warns you off
Crack! The lightening calls you away
Boom, boom, boom,
Crack, boom, hey!

There the village, monastery and monk remain today. Perfectly preserved in ice – a cautionary tale for those of us tempted to mingle with the gods: inscrutable, unknowable, distant, and silent.