D.ALL Chapter 14

And just like the sea—the ferry wasn’t very lively either. Frost and the ferryman had reached a silent truce after their sixth argument about navigation.

However! Foxx and Free kept it from being a truly quiet trip, passing the time by cooking up some tunes.

“Okay, so when I go ba-ba-tch-tch,” he lightly hit the set of plastic soup containers he’d been using as drums. “Play that energetic sequence, the one you made that sounds like a wavy electric staircase—should make for a good hook.”

“What about ‘ba-ba’—‘tch-tch’?” Foxx asked.

“Oh yeah, gives a bit of space, I like it,” Free readied his drum sticks, which were just spoons—but they did the trick. “On three; one, two, three!”

The mix of high-tech multi-layered synth loops and raw drum hits wasn't that bad, besides Free hitting a little off tempo or Foxx pressing the wrong key now and then. At the start it was more space-y drone-y in tone, as Foxx favored, and Free just went along with. But slowly, it veered off course into a fast and abrasive drum-leading piece—Foxx’s part becoming the backing, trying his best to keep up.

Free would’ve slowed down—if he was not trying to keep up with his own pace. He was living in the moment, going with the flow, getting louder and louder with each beat. To him it felt like nothing in the world could stop him from going even further—breaking past what even he deemed as too much. The whole world going out of focus, all that was left was just him, his drums, and his sticks—

A bolt of water shot his sticks out of his hand, mid-slam.

“Pipe down—ye giving me a darn torrent of headache,” the ferryman yelled at Free, swatting water off his finger and looking back to the sea.

Free picked up his sticks from the floor, “Tch, I’ll show you what a real headache sounds like.” He raised his stick high—but then, he noticed Foxx, who now was looking out to sea, not all that interested in the synthesizer anymore.

Free lowered his sticks and walked over to Foxx, “Let’s start from the top, yeah—maybe we can work on that tune you were making yesterday?”

Foxx angled his ear at Free.

“I got carried away—old styles die hard.”

“Ok,” Foxx went back to the synthesizer, ready to start again.

They continued at it for a short while, Free giving a few ideas while Foxx experimented. Yet still, Foxx didn’t seem like he was getting closer, ending at the same point without knowing why—until suddenly he got an idea and asked Free, “Can you sing?”

“Uhhh,” Free scratched the back of his head, “Sorry, can’t.”

Foxx went back to play, “Ok—”

“Can’t sing—I’ve seen fish without tongues sing, you just won’t,” the ferryman heckled.

Free turned to the ferryman, “Weren't you the one complaining about noise? Nobody asked for your—”

“How about a sea shanty to get you warmed up?” the ferryman grinned and took in a deep breath—

“Drop it.”

The ferryman laughed, “Settle down, drum-boy! We’re not too far from New Lilipass, a shanty would be ill-timed.”

“Whatever, man,” Free turned back to Foxx, “Not much time left, so let's make the most of it.”

Foxx nodded his head; he and Free played till landfall.

***

“Alright, off with ye!” the ferryman yelled.

The Camper drove off the ferry and onto the non-rickety dock of New Lilipass.

It was a fraction of the size of the old island, just big enough to fit its small township and a thin forest. Although, compared to Old Lilipass, it certainly looked much brighter, the water shining a clear blue, people going about their day, and greenery growing where it could.

After finding a place to park, a concrete slab at the edge of the forest, the trio got out and headed towards the art center. Free brought his backpack and toolbox with him.

The townsfolk were welcoming, a few giving them pleasant hellos and welcomes as they walked down the dirt sidewalk. However, beyond that, everyone seemed to have somewhere to be or something important to do, carrying boxes, practicing routines, or setting up festival games.

Free nearly bumped into a person carrying three crates on their back, supported also by their tail—thankfully, Free swiftly moved out the person’s way. “This place is much nicer than I thought it’d be,” he remarked.

“What did you think before?” Frost asked.

“Well, uh,” Free looked around, spotting a monument at the center of the town.

It was a pillar of limestone with names engraved on it, droplets of water—about as many as the names—circled around it in a spiral. Atop it was this hand-sized crystal shard that shined like the ocean’s blues.

“You know, we still need to take a picture of Foxx, near a landmark so his guardian can find us easier—that pillar over there seems like a good place!” Free ran to the monument, then realized he didn’t bring the camera, jolting back to the camper then coming back as if nothing happened.

“Come on, Foxx, get in front!” Free waved Foxx over.

Foxx and Frost went over, Foxx standing in front of the monument as Free took his time to line up a good shot, trying to get the most amount of indefinable information as he could.

“Wonder what the monument is supposed to represent,” Frost said.

“People who live here?” Foxx looked behind and saw a name he had seen before engraved in the pillar, Fera.

“Hey, can you look into the camera for me? Also, stay still, the focus on this sucks,” Free said.

Foxx stood still, but the best he could do was look vaguely in the camera’s direction.

Free took a few pictures, then noticed “Fera” as well, “Foxx may be right, wasn’t that oldie named Fera?”

“He never told us his name,” Frost said.

“Well, I assumed the dock was his—so, I'm just putting two and two together,” Free looked through the photos.

“You are making assumptions.”

“Eh, maybe. Either way, these photos should do, we’re lucky this camera works fine—if a bit pixel-y,” Free put away the camera then crossed out “Get photo of Foxx” off his notebook.

“Ah—Ahoy, there you three are!” they heard a voice behind them, followed by desperate gasps for air.

They turned around to see a stout and old Gilieot, his long leaf-coat made of black-dyed palms. He had loose old rubber bracelets with different logos on them around his wrist and was wearing a shirt that read “BIG CATCH.”

“I can’t believe he didn’t page me when you got here, I wanted to give you a proper welcome,” the old Gilieot sounded just as disappointed as he was exhausted.

“It is fine, who are you?” Frost asked.

“Name’s Melli, gasp—Director, prop master, treasurer, and owner of the art center,” he wiped his brow, “How was the voyage?”

“Nothing really of note,” Free said. “Fera was a piece of work to deal with…” he said under his breath.

“Fera?” Melli gave him a confused look.

Free gave the same look back, “The old guy who ferried us over—his name’s Fera, right? Hence the name ‘Fera’s ferry dock.’”

“No, that old coot is Albo, and I do agree he can be a bit… himself, at times.” Melli took a moment to look into the horizon, “Fera has long drifted out to the sea, sad to say.”

“Drifted out to sea…” Free pondered, Frost gave him a nudge the shoulder. “Ah,” Free realized what Melli meant, “So… this monument is a memorial?”

“Long story short, aye. Now, let's get you all over to the art center, lots of work to do—and I’m guessing you don’t want to keep lugging around all that mechanical-whatsits you have there!” Melli patted Free on the back and started walking.

“Told you,” Frost said to Free as they followed Melli to the art center.

***

The art center had seen better days, the murals of marine life painted on its outer walls chipping off in flakes. Kinetic wind statues dotted around its entrance, many old, some new—the new ones much less intricate than what came before them.

The inside was a bit messy; the lobby had various stations set up for different crafts, some better kept than others. From the high ceiling kites hung down, some masterpieces and others the work of first timers—yet all displayed with the same respect. Most depicted animals, like Reefwhips, Shoresharks, and Eyeless-minnows—which the aged pamphlet Foxx picked up neglected to explain.

However, one in particular was a very popular muse, the “Wharfwolf,” which the pamphlet did explain; A thin furred wolf-like creature with fins, gills, barbed teeth, and blubberous skin. The fun fact in the corner of the page said, “Did you know?: The Wharfwolf can use its fur to hold water when it needs to, allowing them to stay moist on land for over a week!”

Under each kite was a sign that said its maker’s name, most of them were the same names he saw on the memorial.

“I know this place is a bit hard to navigate,” Melli said as he guided the trio down a long hallway lined with doors. “But if I’m or Sal’s not around to help, just follow the kites and they’ll lead you to the staff workshop and breakroom.”

The closer they got to the staff workshop, the less animal kites there were. In their place were kites of… Well, Foxx didn’t know, the pamphlet didn’t note them.

The kites were all of the same monster, decayed teeth the size of palm trees, intense yellow eyes, and maw split two-ways and opened like a net. However, each one was different in some way; one could have the beak of a bird which bellowed out dust, then the next would have the body of a serpent cut many times in twain connected by thin string.

Foxx tried to see who made them, but they didn’t have signs. Although, when he looked closely, he could see that written inside each of their frames was a signature he couldn’t decipher. It was the same one across all of them, that he was sure off.

They reached the end of the hallway and Melli opened the door to another high ceiling room—the staff workshop.

Up in its rafters was Sal, who was sitting criss-cross, hunched over, working on a kite frame. Several other kites were suspended up high in a similar stage of production, but one stood out. While not all of its frame was complete, only its floor-reaching-long tail was—it was covered in interlocking lily pads painted to look like scales. Little thin tubes poked out of where each lily pad was connected.

There was another person in the room, a young Gilieot with a pirate flag embroidered on their jacket sleeve. She was reading a tattered adventure book and leaning against a storage cabinet.

“Sal, they’re here!” Melli said.

Sal popped her head up and looked over her shoulder, “Be there in a jiffy, just let me finish this thing up!” She tossed a bottle of glue into the trashcan below her, then turned her attention to the young Gilieot, holding out her hand, “Lav, toss up some glue, please!”

Lav, without looking away from her book, rummaged through the storage cabinet beside her then threw a bottle of glue up to Sal.

Right when the bottle reached mid-way, Sal balled her hand into a fist—water seeping in then out, forming a bubble around the can. Next, she opened her hand, and the bubble flew right into her palm, “Thanks!”

Lav said nothing in return.

After gluing parts of the frame together, Sal leaped down, slowing her fall by unfurling her wing feathers. When she safely landed on the ground they retracted, furling back around her arms. She had the same bracelets on as Melli, and her plumage and clothes were covered in paint marks.

“Glad you three took the offer—I’ll admit I was a bit worried you’d ghost us,” Sal said with a cheery tone, in much higher spirits than she was at the mall. She extended her hand to Frost, “You must be Frost, good to meet you.”

Frost shook her hand, “Likewise.”

“Like your hat, where’d you get it?” Sal asked.

“Free made it.”

Sal turned to Free, “Oh, didn’t expect you knew how to sew. There’s lots of work I got just for you then.”

“Happy to hear—you know, not to slack or anything, but I was hoping to get this stuff set up before doing anything else,” Free said as he struggled to keep standing.

Melli spoke up, “As long as right when you're done you come help out.”

“Yeah, yeah, got it, you have my word,” Free replied.

“You can use the outlets over there, just make sure not to overload them,” Sal pointed to the outlets at a far wall.

Free walked over and quickly started setting up the radio.

“Okay, I’ll make this quick since we’re losing daylight, and everything is running a tad behind already,” Sal said to Foxx and Frost. “Today I need you guys to pick some flowers that I need to complete my costume.”

“Costume?” Foxx asked.

“The one with the big tail—it's for our main event, ‘the Dance of the Dust Devil,’” there was pride in Sal's voice. “For the festival’s tenth anniversary, I got the idea of going all out and taking inspiration from plant-art from before the dust came. Although I’m mixing in some stylings of post-Dust Devil art movements, especially what styles Melli—” she stopped herself. “...We can save the history lesson for later, if you're interested.”

“Woah,” Foxx woah-ed, then nodded his head, which made Sal overjoyed—practically beaming.

“Picking flowers should not take long,” Frost said.

“Not just any flowers—Dyehearts,” Sal said. “Lav, my sister, found two of them on the shore, and after checking the currents to find out where they could’ve come from, I think they’re from the northside of Old Lilipass, in the heart of the old township.”

“What do they look like?” Foxx asked.

“They vary a bit in shape and a lot in color, but generally they have about thirty to fifty petals and are flat faced. Another good way to tell is that when you pick one, it shouldn’t wilt or lose its luster,” Sal said. “Melli will take you down to Fera’s dock but won’t come with you.”

She looked to Lav, “However, since I’d rather you not get lost, I’ll be sending my sister with you as a guide.”

Lav looked up from her book, “Can I at least bring the machete?”

“No,” Sal shook her head, “It's more likely you hurt yourself playing with it then anything dangerous still lives there.”

Lav tsked.

“Make sure to get fresh phone batteries before you leave, and update me at least every hour, okay?” Sal said.

“How many flowers do you need?” Frost asked.

Sal went over to a pile of baskets and picked out six, “Enough to fill these if you can—oh, and make sure to pluck up its entire stem, not just its head.”

Frost took all six baskets as Lav put away her book and walked over.

“All good?” Sal asked Frost.

“Yep.”

“What about you, Lav? It's been a bit since you had an adventure to the old island!”

Lav shrugged, and without a word or glance at Sal, she left the workshop, gesturing to Foxx and Frost to get moving.

“...Well, see you all in a few,” Sal waved Foxx, Frost, and Lav goodbye.