Colors
Alex sat in a large wooden chair. The camp was quiet, and he saw no movement outside the tent flap. He knew the moon was tall in the sky because the grass was silver. He sipped German brandy. It was a nighttime treat that became a habit. It was good brandy.
“What did that shaman say?” he asked himself. “Enjoy your trip?”
At the time, all Alex could translate was trip. He was pantomiming a herd of rhinos, trying to ask if any had been spotted. He brought his foot down hard. That’s when the bowl went everywhere, and colorful dust chased it. Alex had felt genuinely bad, as it was not his habit to destroy other people’s property deliberately. After making a big show of apology, the shaman stopped yelling.
The shaman picked up some of the remaining dust and said, “Furahia safari.” He then blew the dust into Alex’s face. Alex sneezed, and when he opened his eyes, the shaman was looking at him with a partially toothed smile.
When Alex returned to camp, he retired early to his tent and grabbed his Swahili language book. He flipped through the pages. He was unable to find an exact form for furahia, but he was confident the whole phrase meant something like, “Enjoy your trip.” It felt a little more nuanced—almost foreboding.
“Foreboding? It must be the brandy,” said Alex. “Alex Landers, you’re letting yourself get paranoid in your old age.”
He set the brandy on the desk and draped a small net over it. He went to the bed. He considered taking off his boots, but since there was a chance last night’s fracas might return, he felt safer sleeping with them on. He pulled up the duvet so his boots wouldn’t dirty the sheets. Alex rolled onto the bed and let out a deep breath. It took only a few minutes before the tent next door heard him snoring.
Gold
A loud warhorn woke Alex. It wasn’t the piercing high note of a hunting horn. It was deeper, like a tenor holding a single note. It felt like he was sleeping on the ground. Had he rolled off the bed in the night? A grass stem tickled his forehead, and the horn sounded again. Frustrated, he sat up and rubbed his eyes.
“Who the hell brings a warhorn on safari?” growled Alex. “Damn these city types.” He opened his eyes.
A sea of golden grass spread out around him. The sky was clear. The overhead sun gilded everything. Alex had two simultaneous thoughts: “Why didn’t my porter wake me?” and “I’m no longer in camp.”
Distant thundering hooves. Alex looked toward the sound. He saw nothing, but that didn’t matter. Gentle slopes could hide things—near things. He surveyed his immediate area. He saw a brass key sticking out of the dirt between his boots. Curious, Alex grabbed the key and tried to free it. The key refused to move. The earth was hard-packed. He got out his bayonet and dug.
The thundering hooves continued their approach. The galloping sounds were wrong. Alex had heard large beasts run over the savannah all his life. There were too many beats in every stride.
“There!” The key was free. Alex stood up with his prize.
There was no sign of the camp. The thundering grew louder. He saw a disturbance in the gold grass to the south but no beasts. He turned around, scanning. Nothing. The light from above confounded his eyes. He shielded them with his right hand. With the glare removed, he saw something in the distance.
A hundred paces to the northeast was a golden door. Without thinking, Alex took off at a run, trying to outdistance the beasts. The thunder pressed behind him. He reached the door; it was locked. So? Behind the door was nothing—not even more grass.
“The door it is,” he said.
He tried to turn the handle; it wouldn’t give. He remembered the brass key and pulled it out. It fit, but it wouldn’t turn in either direction.
“All that time?” growled Alex. “Should have left the piece of garbage there.”
Alex shook the door with everything he had. For an unattached doorframe, it felt incredibly secure. Alex leaned back, lifted his leg high, and kicked the door with his heel. The door held firm, but something fell from the top of the frame. A silver key. He tried the new key, but it didn’t even fit. Alex pocketed it with the brass key.
Alex leaned back once more, raised his knee high, and kicked. His foot burst through the door’s upper-left panel and got stuck. He yanked and slipped, hanging by his leg. He yanked again and fell back on his butt. He hurriedly stood up and reached through the hole, scrambling for the inner mechanism. He found it and lifted the latch. The door unlocked with a click.
He opened the door and threw himself through, thunder behind him.
Brass
Sprawling on a cold stone floor, Alex slid across into an opulent room. He quickly looked back and raised his arms to fend off the beasts. The door was gone; a painting of stars over a blue mountain was in its place. The thunder had stopped.
He stood slowly and looked around. Low tables covered in fruit and wine bottles were arrayed around the room. The walls and ceiling were cream-colored wallpaper with brass inlays. A brass chandelier hung from a raised ceiling in the middle of the room. Sitting on brass chairs around the room were varied creatures. They were like humans, but they were like themselves. Everyone was engrossed in conversation.
To Alex’s left was a creature with a rabbit’s head, covered in brown fur except for a white belly. He was chattering with a golden woman. Her head glowed, and it was almost impossible to see her face, if she had a face.
“You see, Sun,” said the rabbit, “it isn’t that I think of you as my enemy. But when you’re out and about, wolves have little trouble in spotting me!”
“It is called daytime,” answered the sun. “And I have no choice. The moon chases me and so up I go.” Her voice was calm and measured.
The rabbit noticed Alex. He looked him down and up once and asked, “A new person, how wonderful! What does a safari man think?”
Alex gave a curt nod and stepped forward. “Well, I don’t quite think that’s how it all works. Truth be told…”
Suddenly someone slapped him on the back, interrupting him completely. A silver man stepped up and put his arm around Alex. His face resembled swirling silver and white. His nose appeared attached sideways.
The moon said, “See, it’s just as I’ve been saying. The sun chases me. I’m not the villain.”
“Oh, now don’t start that again—”
“See, here, I’m looking for protection—”
“No, not so!”
Then the sun loudly asked if the moon had ever met Jason. The rabbit laughed. The moon left Alex’s side, and the conversation impolitely ejected Alex. In the interest of gathering intelligence, he sought out another conversation. He found a man shaped like a bull with wide horns. As he turned his head this way and that, he avoided knocking into anything. He was chatting with a candle woman. Her flame was lit, but wax refused to drip down her body.
The bull was asking, “All I’m asking is why am I missing from the Zodiac?”
“What? You have Taurus,” answered the candle.
“Taurus! No, no, no. Taurus isn’t me. What if I said the sun represents you?”
“Oh, God, that pompous ass. I see your point.”
“Do you?”
“I do. I tell you what, next time I illuminate a letter for Jason, I’ll mention it to him.”
“That’s all I ask,” said the bull.
Neither of them looked at Alex or invited his opinion, and so he moved on, in search of better information. He spotted another conversation and made his way there. On his way, he passed by a window, and a small weasel cleared his throat.
Alex stopped and looked down.
“Would you like to try your luck?” asked the weasel.
Alex examined the little creature, brows furrowed.
“Hey! Do you wanna try your luck or not?”
“At what?” asked Alex.
“Look out the window much? The silver bull out there. Eight legs and attitude. If you can get the gold key from around its neck, you win.”
“What do I win?”
“They haven’t told me, and nobody’s won. So, I don’t know.”
Alex replied, “Not very enticing.”
“On the surface, but Jason set the challenge.”
“Okay. What’s holding the key on?”
“Good question. Gold. A gold chain. Delicate. Most people prefer to shoot the bull, though.”
Alex said, “Right, but you said nobody’s won. So, why would I do what everyone else does?”
“You sound like a winner!”
“You say that often?” asked Alex.
“All the time.” The weasel laughed.
Silver
Alex bellied up to the window. Outside, the sky was silver and lit by a silver moon. The grass was silver and waved in the breeze. There certainly was a silver bull with eight legs out there. It appeared docile for the moment. On a patch of grass below the window was his favorite Henry lever-action .45-70. It would be perfect to take down the beast.
The weasel said, “Just climb on out, buddy boy.”
“No door?”
“No door.”
Alex hopped and swung his legs over the ledge. He landed in the grass, and a new quiet swallowed him. Standing, he looked back. The window was gone. The opulent room was gone. The silver grass spread out seemingly forever in all directions.
“Damnit.”
He crouched and grabbed his rifle. He had two rounds left in his cartridge belt. He loaded them into the rifle. He located the bull and lowered himself into a prone posture. He aimed. Where would the vital area be for a stretched-out, eight-legged beast? He steadied his breath and trained his sights. He began to squeeze the trigger.
“Stop!” he thought. He took his finger off the trigger. Not the animal. The key. Maybe the trick was to deviate from the conventional thinking. The key was on a delicate chain. If he hit it, it should break easily.
He reacquired his target and let out a calm breath. He fired at the key’s chain, just above the key. Just as the rifle discharged, the bull shook his head, causing Alex to miss. To make things worse, the rifle’s report spooked the bull. He bolted down the hill, across the field, and was gone. Alex sighed and trotted to where the bull had been standing.
He searched the grass around with his foot, looking for the key. He was hoping for a lucky hit. After some time, he accepted there was no key. To the east, the grass was trampled. He followed the signs. For an hour, he went down and up hills.
He cautiously surmounted a rather large hill. The bull was across the valley, standing on the crest. Moonlight winked off the fur, taunting him. Alex settled into a prone position and aimed. He said a quiet prayer; his last round was in the rifle. He was steady, breathing evenly. He squeezed the shot into existence.
Alex saw the key jerk under the bull’s throat. The bull bucked. He was sure he’d hit the chain, but he couldn’t tell if it broke. The bull lurched and then ran off to the south.
Alex crossed the valley and checked the area around where the bull had stood. The key was not there. It must still be caught in the damaged chain. He ran after the bull, watching the ground carefully. He tracked crushed grass for half an hour. His feet were tired. As he crested another hill, he found signs that the bull had lain down. Alex imagined the bastard lying there, waiting for him. A vast patch of grass had been flattened.
“You bastard. You’re leading me,” he muttered.
Alex toed around in the grass. A gleam beneath the moon caught his attention. It was the gold key. He picked it up.
“I guess I won,” he said.
Blue
When he straightened, the sky was blue. The yellow sun hung low in a clear sky. The ground cover regained color, and yellow-green grass spread all around. Alex spied his camp down the hill, in a ravine. Men were out repairing tents. He ran down the hill, where his porter met him at the edge of camp.
“Sir, where have you been?” he asked. “We searched for you.”
“That can wait. Was anyone hurt?”
“No, sir. Everyone was awake, and we stayed out of its way. Neville said he saw eight legs!”
“I know. What was the damage?”
The porter answered, “Just the two far tents. I think he got caught on the first one and then ripped them both up because he was trying to get free.”
“That would explain things. Alright. Get back to work.”
“Yes, sir.”
Alex walked over to a damaged tent. Inside, a man was trying to reset a pole under the center tent grommet. It wasn’t moving into place under the pressure from the canvas.
“Hold on, Tobias,” said Alex.
Alex ran and grabbed a spare pole from behind the utility tent. He quickly returned and took the weight off Tobias’s pole.
“Now, man. Slide yours in.” Tobias’s pole, without the weight of the tent, slid right into place.
“Thank you, sir!”
“How’s the other tent?”
“Just about done as far as I know.”
Alex clapped Tobias on the shoulder and gave him a crisp nod. He went to the other damaged tent and found two of his men finishing the repairs.
The fracas was conquered.
Alex walked to his tent. He was going to finish his brandy, but when he saw his canteen, he immediately took a large drink of water. He noticed his mementos box on his dresser. He brought it over to the desk and opened it as his porter entered the tent. From his pocket, he took out the three keys: brass, silver, and gold.
“Not to pester, but where have you been, sir? The men are curious.”
Alex showed the keys to his porter. “Not pestering. I’ve been here.”
“And what, pray tell, are those?”
Alex smiled. “Evidence.”
