NEWDIE STEADSLAW

In the depths of the purse, where the drape of soft velvet was around them, absorbing all sounds, muffling their steps, and sinking into their breaths, Traycup said, “It’s dark in here,” because also it was dark in there—forgot to mention that, sorry. Maybe I should’ve led with the visuals afore the sonic design, but there’s always next time, for now. Live and learn, right? Well, live, anyway. As for Traycup, he’d been in rooms more than once and wasn’t entirely unfamiliar with the concept, despite the darkness and the unfeasible cost of all that velvet. Even a broken clock is right all day long, so long as it points to noon.

“We want for a slightly bright light,” said Roby, “or expedient evolution to see without sight!” She moved in the dark like a pie in a swamp—carefully, diligently, with arms outstretched and dreading to do their job.

“Evolution demands a sacrifice,” said Traycup, acting nearly likewise, “and I’ve no knife.”

“Such a steep price!” said Roby. “Why is needed a sacrifice, and for whom shall it suffice?”

“It’s spec’lative,” said Traycup, “based on antique bookeries. But! I am unjust. An attempt at gaining light also has merit, but where will we find an anglerfish at this teatime?”

“Where indeed,” said an anglerfish. “Now, it’s answer time. Who are you, barging into my own zone, keeping your names secret, and spinning fibs about knives?”

“Ho there!” said Traycup. “We’ve a piece of luck here. Goodfish, shine your light ’pon us, if you will!”

“Light?” said the anglerfish. “You get none! Strangers, and demanding ones at that! Well, we’ll set you to rights in short time. Gentlemen, ready the can opener!”

Unseen gentlemen readied the can opener. Unmentioned gentlemen, surprised to find themselves mentioned, did not ready any can openers—that was already accounted for.

“There is an idea of me that may defuse danger,” said Roby. “Let us share some names and cease to be strangers! The name of me is Roby Lopkit, and the name of he is Traycup Lopkit.” This was a trick as daring as it was overdone, and nothing would change either case. “So, how do you do, and what is the name of you?”

“Oh ho! So it’s a time of names after all?” said the anglerfish. “Then I’ve one as well. Let me see—yes! I am Ben Garment. That is what I shall be called. So, we are strangers no more. In this I am satisfied. You shall have your light.”

Ben Garment shone his dangler and a bright light filled the purse, and it could be seen that myriad passages and caves sprawled away in every direction, places made of smooth corduroy, sweet cotton, and kindly brocade—all the makings of the meat of the purse-innards—and Traycup and Roby were as lost as in an anthill of devout intricacy. Ben Garment was no liar, and indeed was an anglerfish as promised, with a handsome wooden coat and a fine set of wheels. The unseen gentlemen, despite the glowdom, remained unseen, as it seemed the can opener would not see use after all, you see—and they had exclusively better things to do than this. The unmentioned gentlemen, mentioned again, strongly considered ceasing their participation entirely.

“You’ve done a thankful thing,” said Traycup. “Now, willn’t you do one more?”

“A real favor-asking man!” said Ben Garment. “Say the favor and know if it’s pleasing to one or all.”

“We’re pursebound,” said Traycup, “in search of the Blood Onyx of Zykluur. If this is a thing known to you, make us the same in wisdom, and true friends we’ll be ever onward!”

At this, Ben Garment could only laugh—because he suffered an unfortunate genetic complexion which drove him to laughter at the mention of Zykluur—so he laughed a bellowous laugh, and two old nurses came up to Traycup, found him, and fined him.

“We pursue butter,” Roby explained, for she was keen in seeing a job well-done, “and no other, so a need of us is the Onyx of Blood that seems to be of Zykluur! If you can see to us given the stuff we can depart your zone by noon!”

Now Ben Garment laughed again, and this time two young nurses came up to Roby, found her fine and finally fined her, but as she had no money, the nurses merely rolled their eyes and added her to the blacklist—if she ever dared to order a pizza in this town again, it’d be the end for her. But at last Ben Garment recovered, and he said, “I know it, as there can be no other reason. Alas, said stone—better left unsaid, may I say—is at times well-known, and not uncausedly. It carries a curse with it that keeps it good and lost!”

“We fearn’t a curse, Roby and I—that’s so, isn’t it?” Traycup said.

“There is nothing worse than a fearful curse,” said Roby.

A grin came to Traycup, and he snatched it in passing, and said, “It’s son’t, so’t seems! Well, Ben, say if it’s as fearful as our Roby dreads! Ifn’t, we’ll staple it down. If it’s, well, that’s a bridge for burning at a later crossing!”

“I’ll put it to paper and leave you to judge,” said Ben Garment. “The thing’s curse is as follows: those who find it are bound to lose it once more. Those who pick it up as quickly drop it. Those who see it blind their eyes and embrace dismemory. Those who know its spot, in sooth, know nothing after all!”

“Clever devil!” said Traycup, found in thought. “Quite the scam! So, the thing defies knowing its place. We’ve a task or two to know the unknown, then.”

Roby didn’t say anything, but instead took a break and went and ate a few peanut butter crackers. Sadly, peanut was not the variety of butter they sought at the moment. Equally sadly, she had not the power to have her peanut butter cracker and eat it, too, and so once they were eated, the peanutted butter had nothing further to offer them. She wiped her hands on her coat.

“Let’s begin a test for the beast,” said Traycup. He aligned with Ben Garment to begin plannage. “We’ll set nice things for the taking—strawberry shortcake, ten teddy bears, a brand new walkie-talkie—materials akin to likability. Seeing which gifts stay ’ntouched, we’ll gain the knowledge of where it’sn’t. None could resist these alluring prizes!”

“A measurable bearing,” said Ben Garment, rubbing his fins. “So, you’d paint it up a creek?”

“That’s a way!” said Traycup.

Now it seemed to Roby that the boys had concocted a goodly plan—or, at least, they seemed to think so—and so, to show the hand of her own enthusiasm, said, “I will call the plumber, if you give me his number.”

“Do that hastily and quietly,” said Ben Garment, “if you’re to do it at all! Plumbers around here can be ferocious if you have their back to the wall! Elsewhere, they can be disingenuous if you have their back to the wall. Although,” Ben Garment mumbled, “it does depend on the wall.”

As Ben Garment continued to explain to Traycup the various properties of differing walls—Traycup becoming a joyman to gain that knowledge, suspecting he might see a wall or two in his days—Roby espied a telegraph office, and hastened thither, not knowing what to expect, and instead she found but another smallish booth, operated by an operator—different from the one that’d assisted the commissar, obviously, and quite unrelated, except by blood.

“What do you want?” said the telegraph operator, noting Roby’s fullmost countenance with suspicion.

“I would like to contact a plumber,” said Roby, “although I did forget to acquire his number.”

“You want to—you want to call a plumber?” said the telegraph operator. “Over the telegraph? In this day and age?”

“This is correct,” said Roby, “and please call him collect, for I have no money—do not laugh, for that is not funny!”

“Lady,” said the telegraph operator, giving Roby the benefit of a doubt, “this is a historical reenactment for the school. The telegraph doesn’t really work. It’s not hooked up to anything. Besides, I mean, is a plumber gonna have his own telegraph? How’s he gonna get the memo?” The telegraph operator leaned over Roby and glared at her, narrowing all of its eyes. “You look abnormal. Don’t you have a phone—or know what one is like? Hey—is this your first time this far into the breach?”

This dressing-down was not on Roby’s to-do list—none ever was—and she glanced about in a state of nerves. Her eye got caught by Traycup and Ben Garment getting on a blimp. Now, they weren’t getting into the gondola, where you’re supposed to ride it, so belay thinking about that image entirely. They were getting on the blimp—right on the very top of the balloonery. Ben Garment had a long ladder, and Traycup had enough snails to hold it in place while they clomb, so it had seemed a natural fit.

The telegraph operator followed her gaze.

“There’s no such thing as plumbers,” it whispered. “There’s no such thing as plumbers,” it said again. “There’s no—” But there would be no resolution, for there and just then, the telegraph operator broke in half and fell into a ditch by the side of the road. There was and had been lots of stuff in the ditch, none of it good, and now there was more. When the snows came, it would be forgotten for good.

Roby fled the telegraph office—which now began to burn down since its parking meter was past due—for she had already guessed at the accident that lay ahead of the blimp-goers. They were on a fool’s errand! She called out to Traycup and Ben Garment, “The errand of you and you is due to undo all the work lurking! A secret reserving, an act unpreserving the hidden stone—a little-known riddled zone, unbeknownst to little folk, the place thus far quite remote, must remain unbespoke!”

Traycup heard none of this dire warning, for the blimp’s jet engines were firing up the grill. “Come along, Roby!” he called. “With flight, we will’ve a great luxury! Like the kings of old, we can travel in, if not style, then with adequate luggage!”

“Fear not the elder zeppelin,” said Ben Garment. “Its machinations are as like to bear fruit as disease or worse! There are adequate snails, so climb quickly and become aboard!”

“The curse is a thing that demands someone think!” said Roby. “The airship has height that will grant too much sight! The Onyx of Blood that is of Zykluur will curse us all if it cannot rest obscure!”

At the mention of Zykluur, Ben Garment began laughing again, an uproarious and jovial laugh that was unakin to his character, and this time one young and one old nurse came to shoot Roby with a Taser, but they tripped over the snails, dislodged the ladder, and, what’s more, accidentally radioed to the air traffic control tower to signal the blimp to launch. And so it—the blimp—unmoored, and went aloft, and floated away and far from Roby. Traycup waved bon-voyagely, and Ben Garment, once recovered, shrugged it off as some typical Roby antics.

“A foolish deed indeed,” said Roby to no one but herself. “If the thing demands a hiding spot, it shall become a danger if it cannot! When all the secrets are laid bare, the place of safety will be nowhere.”

And indeed, as Traycup and Ben Garment rose in the mighty blimp, the whole countryside of the inside of the commissar’s purse was there before them, lit by Ben Garment’s mighty dangler, and every nook and cranny was exposed to them, and in the space of a breath they saw the Blood Onyx of Zykluur, prancing in a lovely field as a tangy orchestra played sadly.

“I’v’t in my sights!” said Traycup. “A task accomplished without suspicious ease, as corralling the snails was a true job!”

“Now,” said Ben Garment, “ready the harpoons! We’ll get it pinned down and netted, and drag it aboard kicking and screaming!”

The unseen gentlemen, hiding their faces behind folding fans, manned the torpedoes, before rereading Ben Garment’s line, and manned the harpoons instead. “For king or country!” they said, and they all fired in different directions, all at the same target. Meanwhile, the unmentioned gentlemen gave up entirely and quit on the spot and went home.

Now, on an unrelated note: consider that some people are passionately concerned about their appearance, and make it their entire identity, from clothes to fitness to a little bit of making-up—but then, there are some people who will proudly say that they don’t care what others think about them at all, and that’s a fine attitude to claim, except it’s impossible and they’ve already lied. Most people fall somewhere between the extremes, but Roby was akin to the very definition of one end of the scale—so inconsiderate of her look was she that she didn’t even know what kind of hair she had, and a mirror was fully alien to her. The only thought she gave to clothing was acquiring more coats for purely practical purposes: plenty of pockets. And so, she was home to untold myriads. But, as I said, it’s unrelated to the Blood Onyx of Zykluur fleeing to the one place where no one would ever find it, or try to search, or, even if they searched the spot, ever find an end or order to the exploration. The only thing known surely was that it wasn’t in the hands of the unseen gentlemen, who now posed dramatically in the spotlight, roses clenched between their teeth, jazz hands all.

At the same time, the Blood Onyx of Zykluur now certainly appeared to be everywhere—in fact, everyone who looked for it even slightly would find it. They would find it, and stop looking for it—the real it. Each of the unseen gentlemen had lobbed their harpoon toward one, a perfect shot, and would surely pierce their hearts if they had any. Traycup and Ben Garment watched the spectacle of the shots with anticipatory excitement and counted the seconds until the shred of victory would be gained.

In the commissar’s hand—the one holding the purse—was the purse, and he was weighing it and his options as he awaited the sent pair’s successful return with his desired prize, when all at once, a veritable symphony of harpoons came flying out of the purse, not having been stopped by striking their illusory targets, and thus their trajectories were unalterable. Because no one had bothered to check how long their ropes were, and since their length was thus undefined, there was really no reason for the harpoons to do anything but proceed, sans any potent barrier or restraint, and so they passed through the fabrical walls and floors and ceilings of the lands of the inside of the purse and right on through to the other side, where they emerged and pierced up the commissar’s hand. This was, however, of no moment—but that they’d used harpoons could only mean one thing: the blimp was out of torpedoes.

“I’ll have to refill it,” said the commissar with a sigh and a grunt, and he upended his purse and dumped everything into a frying pan, but as you may suspect, blimps fly, not fry, and so Traycup and Ben Garment simply flew out of that whole situ’, away from the purse and phone booth both, and away from the commissar’s reach fully.

“Adieu, sire!” hailed Traycup as they flew away. “Our quest has found an alternate route! Keep that butter warm for us, if you’d not mind, for we may yet have a need f’rit!”

Roby, however, wasn’t enblimped, and made no similar escape. She landed in the frying pan amongst the remnants of the telegraph office, the unmentioned gentlemen’s business cards, and a yak named Kyle. A number of hubcaps fell down all around her—three, actually—and some were shaped like reindeer, some made of spaghetti, and none had ever owned a CD player.

“Ye’re back!” shouted the commissar. “This as good as counts! So, ye must have the Blood Onyx of Zykluur. Hand it over!”

“You speak much of hands,” said Roby, as Ben Garment’s laughter faded into the sky, “but I must spoil your plans. The rock you sought bears a curse, of course, and wishes not to be found, so it is not around. Look to your left, and then to your right, and you will not see it despite the light! So look instead inside yourself, into a place quite unseeable, and there beside your heart and breath the Onyx may be meetable!”

“Ah, a metaphor,” said the commissar. He leant over Roby like a voluminous spinster. “Now, ye listen here—it’s a very valuable gem and I need it at once. Not a metaphor, but the real deal! Yer words do no one no good.”

“I do not know what a metaphor is for, so I speak of the real Blood Onyx of Zykluur. We have come to meet it and face its curse, and now to beat it, this is our course!” Roby put a little bit of pouting into her look, and felt advanced for her resilience.

“Hey,” said the operator, still juggling lungs. “I can crack you open and take a look.”

“Aye, it’s needed,” said the commissar, “just in case the lass isn’t spinnin’ yarns. Ye’ll do it quickly, with those hands of ye, or else I’ll see ye tossed with the rubbish on the side of the beach!”

“Yeah, I know how credit cards work,” said the operator wearily.

So the operator took his scalpel and cut the commissar straight in half, and looked inside, and saw the Blood Onyx of Zykluur—which of course meant that was not the Blood Onyx of Zykluur, but the operator and commissar both knew not of the curse, and so the operator grabbed it anyway and put it aside.

“Got it,” said the operator. “That was simple. Now, to close you up, I’m gonna need a lot of glue. Hey, you know where to find a nurse?” said the operator to Roby—or rather, to the spot where Roby had been, for she was no longer about, and had sprinted off as soon as anyone glanced away.