Purple is the new Gold

 

Cast in order of appearance:

 

Chir Druba, a wandering minstrel

John Buttle, a teenage boy

Kwava Snowfur, a young igasho

a cerulean genie

Assistant Archibald, a part-time aethership pilot

Purple Petunia

Theodorus Gryphta

 

 

Act I

A cosy, if messy, tavern has been bolstered against the winter chill with thick drapes and a sturdy shutters. A huge fire roars in the hearth, warming the many customers partaking of beer and pies at the various sturdy wooden tables. In a chair right next to the fire sits a dracnari woman cradling a lute in her arms and crooning a saucy melody. A mismatched pair of youngsters is seated at the table nearest to her: a human boy in his late teens with a mop of disordered brown hair, and an equally youthful igasho female, not yet grown into her full height yet still towering over the rest of the company.

The minstrel finishes her song, and is rewarded with a tankard of something frothy as shouts go up for another song. Laughing, she drains the tankard in a few gulps and sets it down beside her chair, forming a row of four with three other discarded vessels. Picking up her lute once more, she begins a new song to the roared approval of the assembled drinkers.

Chir Druba: (singing) This is a story of mountains of gold! I daresay you’ve heard of the treasures of old,

Chir Druba: (singing) Of carpets that fly and of teapots that sing, of riches and jewels and every good thing that adventuresome people could wish to discover, but hold! For once, there was such another.

Chir Druba: (singing) The finest of ladies there lived long ago; her eyes were like sapphires, her hair was like snow. She lived in a castle far up in the skies, and there she kept secret a fabulous prize.

Chir Druba: (singing) Such aureate plumage, this creature possessed; never was poultry so charmingly dressed! Bright gold from its bill to its feathered caboose; it was, to be brief, a pure golden goose.

Chir Druba: (singing) Gooold were its wings and gold were its legs; gold were its eyeballs and gold were its eggs! Pure golden eggs did the golden goose lay; pure golden eggs by the bucket each day!

Chir Druba: (singing) This finest of ladies ne’er wanted for gold; but time did its passing and soon she grew old. Her castle still floats out in ‘Space, so they say; it’s empty and silent, but there’ll come a day

Chir Druba: (singing) When stout-hearted voyagers fly up to the gate, fair goosie will wake from her slumberous state. For them shall she lay her eggs of pure gold, and they shall be richer than ever was told.

 

The minstrel finishes her song to scattered applause, and accepts another tankard in payment. Nearby, the human boy nudges his igasho companion.

John Buttle: Hey, Kwa. Have you got any money on you? I’m out.

Kwava Snowfur shakes her head sadly, staring in woe at a scant handful of coins in her large hand.

Kwava Snowfur: No. I am once again poor.

John Buttle sighs in frustration, eyeing the empty tankards that sit before him.

John Buttle: Back to hunting vermin, then. I’m so tired of it! It’s messy work, and it hardly pays at all.

The two youngsters fall into glum silence, paying no attention to the music once again flowing from the minstrel’s lute. But after a moment, Kwava shakes herself and jabs a finger at the dracnari.

Kwava Snowfur: Hey! John! We could do that.

John Buttle blinks in confusion at the minstrel, and then stares at Kwava suspiciously.

John Buttle: Do... what?

Kwava Snowfur: What she said!

John Buttle: What, the goose? Find the golden goose? Don’t be silly. Why, that’s a ... that’s a wild goose chase, Kwa.

Kwava Snowfur folds her arms and glares at her friend.

Kwava Snowfur: You never listen to my ideas.

John Buttle: I do! I do too! Just not this one. This one is silly.

Kwava Snowfur: Fine, I will do it alone and when I am swimming in gold and you are still hunting lizards, you will be sorry.

John Buttle: Come on, Kwa. If it existed, someone would’ve found it by now.

Kwava Snowfur: Maybe it’s just really hard to find!

John Buttle: Then how are we supposed to find it?

This stymies Kwava, who slumps back into her chair in pure dejection. But then something else catches her eye, and she sits up again in excitement.

Kwava Snowfur: We get someone to tell us, John!

John Buttle looks in the direction Kwava’s pointing finger. At the next table sits an elfen woman, a violin resting against the legs of her chair. Her pack sits on the floor beside her, and the top has fallen open. Inside, something bejewelled shines invitingly.

John Buttle: Wha...?

Kwava Snowfur: The bottle!

John Buttle: What bottle?

Kwava Snowfur: (lowering her voice) The bottle! In the pack! It has a genie inside.

John Buttle blinks and looks again.

John Buttle: (in a shocked whisper) Are you suggesting we steal some woman’s genie bottle? We’d get in trouble! Big trouble!

Kwava Snowfur: Not steal! Just borrow it, for a bit. Without telling her.

John Buttle: And do what with it?

Kwava Snowfur shakes her head impatiently, obviously frustrated with her friend’s denseness.

Kwava Snowfur: We rub the bottle, and when the genie comes out we ask it where to find the castle with the goose!

John Buttle: Genies don’t do things like that. I saw one, once. An adventurer had one of the red ones. He rubbed it, and the genie came out, and it handed over eight colewort and then it vanished again.

Kwava Snowfur: (crestfallen) Eight colewort?

John Buttle: Yes. That’s all you get from genies, Kwa. Bits of stupid plants.

Kwava Snowfur eyes the exposed genie bottle a bit more, chewing on her lip.

Kwava Snowfur: I have to try it, John!

Kwava Snowfur lunges out of her seat, grabs the bottle from the elfen woman’s pack and dashes out of the door with it.

John Buttle curses and legs it outside.

Snow is falling outside the tavern, and pine trees bend and ripple in a high wind. Kwava Snowfur stands several feet from the door, ignoring the inclement weather as she impatiently rubs at the sparkling genie bottle in her hands. John catches up, just in time to see a stream of smoke pour from the mouth of the bottle as the genie appears.

The genie, cerulean and giving off ocean spray, blinks in apparent surprise to see a towering white-furred igasho where he is presumably used to seeing a slender elfen woman. He shrugs this off, however; gives a harsh laugh like the cry of a seagull, presents Kwava with precisely thirteen rosehips, and begins to fade.

Kwava Snowfur: Wait! Genie! I have a question. You can keep the rosehips.

Genie: Rosehips are all I have to offer, this month. Next time, perhaps it will be silver. Or tea.

The genie fades away almost entirely, rapidly disappearing back into his bottle.

Kwava Snowfur: (desperately) No! Genie! Stay, or I will break your house! And then what will become of you!

Kwava Snowfur holds up the bottle threateningly. There is a handy rock nearby, and the implications are clear.

The genie ceases to fade, eyeing the rock uncertainly.

Genie: Perhaps just one quick question, then. But this is most irregular!

Kwava Snowfur: (penitently) I know, but it is important. The castle in the sky, where the golden goose lives! Where is it?

Genie: The poultry of pulchritudinous plumage?

Kwava Snowfur: (uncertainly) Probably?

Genie: The gorgeous goose of gold! The beauteous bird of -- of --

Kwava Snowfur: (impatiently) Yes, that one.

The genie conjures a piece of paper in one hand and a pen in the other and quickly scribbles something down, then hands it to Kwava.

Genie: There’s your co-ordinates.

Kwava Snowfur: (rapturously) Oh, thank you! Thank you!

The genie banishes the paper and pen, and holds out one large, cerulean hand.

Genie: My rosehips, please.

Kwava Snowfur returns the unwanted rosehips without hesitation, clutching her paper against the fierce winds.

The genie quirks an eyebrow at Kwava, stares blankly at John for two seconds, then vanishes back into his bottle.

Kwava Snowfur beams brilliantly at her friend, bouncing in excitement.

Kwava Snowfur: We got it, John! We got it!

John Buttle: Yeah, okay, great. How are we going to get there?

Kwava Snowfur stops bouncing abruptly.

Kwava Snowfur: Good question, John.

The snowy forest abruptly disappears, replaced with a scene showing some unnamed street in Gaudiguch, shimmering in a fierce heat. John Buttle and Kwava are glumly hunting lizards, the latter looking particularly miserable in her thick coat of fur. The sky changes fluidly from the burning heat of noon to twilight, a warm night, breaking morning and back to noon. This progression of days is repeated several times over, while John and Kwava continue to hunt.

John Buttle: This is terrible.

Kwava Snowfur: Yes, John, but! After this, we will never have to hunt vermin again.

John Buttle grunts noncommittally.

Kwava Snowfur: Ever!

 

The street vanishes at last, its place taken by a large warehouse with a desk at the front. John and Kwava stand before the desk, looking weary, sweaty and dishevelled. But their eyes are fixed upon the large sign that hangs behind the desk.

AETHERSHIP HIRE

Ship only: 30,000gp per day.

Ship and crew: 60,000gp per day.

 

John Buttle rings the bell that stands upon the desk.

A smiling assistant promptly appears and beams upon both of his customers.

Kwava Snowfur: Ship plus crew!

John Buttle: Please. It’s customary to say please, Kwa.

Kwava Snowfur: Ship plus crew, please!

Assistant Archibald: That’s 60,000 gold! Wow, you’re going to have a great day. Going anywhere special?

Kwava Snowfur: Yes, we’re--

John Buttle: Just sailing around, seeing the delights of ‘Space!

John Buttle opens a tiny money pouch, removes what appears to be only a small handful of sovereigns, and hands them over to the assistant.

Assistant Archibald: Great! Your ship will be The Drunken Dragonfly, and I’ll be your crew.

John Buttle: You? Just you?

Assistant Archibald writes something hastily into a large ledger, and locks the money into a drawer.

Assistant Archibald: (absently) Yes, I’m a pilot. Don’t worry, it will be fine.

John and Kwava exchange a long, uncertain look. Some of the joyous anticipation has vanished from their bright young visages.

 

Act II

The stage curtains close briefly, heralding the end of the first act and the beginning of the second. They open upon a scene of vast, glittering aetherspace. In the distance is a cloudy landmass, atop which can be distantly seen the towering spires of a castle. A bright little aethership gamely ventures towards it, lights blazing.

True to its name, The Drunken Dragonfly veers about unpromisingly in its quest to reach the bubble. Worse, there are several slivvens on its tail and fast closing in. There is a harrowing moment where it appears that the lead slivven may swallow the little ship whole, but the Dragonfly docks safely.

The scene enlarges to focus upon John Buttle and Kwava as they disembark. Both look wobbly and a little green, but dauntless Kwava immediately sets off at a run towards the castle.

And the castle is indeed stupendous. Up close, it becomes clear that it is constructed from rose-coloured glass and glittering diamond. Its central tower soars to stunning heights, and it features three spires on either side. The gardens have grown somewhat out of hand: ivy has overrun what was once a series of ornamental hedges, more ivy clambers laboriously up the tall, tall towers, and it is even visible hanging from the windows at the tops of the spires. Curiously, all the ivy is gold in colour.

Kwava Snowfur hacks her way through all of it with glorious abandon, leaving John Buttle trailing helplessly behind her. In her enthusiasm, she frequently hurls clumps of broken ivy over her shoulder and straight into John’s face.

John Buttle: Kwava? Kwa! I think we need to talk about this!

Kwava Snowfur: But John, there is nothing to speak of! We are within a stone’s throw of our goal! Great riches will soon be ours!

John Buttle: This castle is amazing and all but I don’t think we should get our hopes up too much! If the finest of ladies disappeared ages ago, the goose is probably dead! Or gone. Maybe just gone.

Kwava Snowfur is gloriously oblivious to these entreaties. Soon she has beaten a path to the castle door, which stands obligingly ajar.

Kwava Snowfur: Come on, John! We have arrived!

Kwava Snowfur shoulders her way into the castle’s grand hallway and stands staring in wonder.

The hallway is completely covered in golden ivy. Nothing else is visible at all, save for an occasional bulge suggesting the presence of some hidden furniture slumbering beneath. There is no sign of life.

Kwava Snowfur: We will search the whole castle!

A fluid montage of scenes portrays the miserable struggle of Kwava and the hapless John as they all but swim their way through the castle, every inch of which has been reclaimed by nature. Every room is as the first: covered in golden ivy and devoid of any living creature. At last, Kwava and John arrive back in the hallway, looking dispirited.

John Buttle: I told you. All that vermin, for nothing.

Kwava opens her mouth to speak, but she is interrupted by a tiny, feeble cheeping sound emanating from somewhere beneath the ivy.

Kwava Snowfur: (elatedly) John! Did you hear that!

John Buttle: (doubtfully) I heard... squeaking.

Kwava Snowfur: It is the goose!

John Buttle: Geese don’t cheep. Not even golden ones.

Kwava Snowfur: How do you know that, John! Have you met any golden geese before?

John Buttle: Well, no, but --

A tiny bird covered in fluffy young feathers erupts from the ivy near John’s feet, shouting something incomprehensibly birdish at him. Before it can disappear back into the ivy, Kwava grabs at it and succeeds in trapping the little creature in her large hands.

Kwava Snowfur: It is a little smaller than I expected, John, but there can be no doubt! Let us look!

Kwava Snowfur opens her hands to reveal a tiny chick whose feathers are unmistakeably lavender in hue.

Kwava Snowfur: It is not gold, John.

John Buttle: I was noticing that myself.

Kwava Snowfur: It is also very small.

John Buttle: Very.

John Buttle pokes gently at the chick, prompting an indignant squawking in response.

John Buttle: You know, I’m not even sure that it’s a goose.

Kwava Snowfur: Of course it is a goose. What else could it be?

John Buttle eyes the chick suspiciously.

John Buttle: I think it’s a chicken.

Kwava Snowfur: A chicken!

The chick in Kwava’s hands sets up a fine show of indignation, flapping its stubby wings and screeching at the top of its voice. In response, the hall erupts with tiny lavender chicks surging out of the ivy and cheeping in concert. The effect is not as fearsome as they no doubt intend. John and Kwava stare at this display in great surprise.

Loud, angry clucks join the cacophonic noise, and a moment later an adult chicken jumps into view from some concealed nest and runs wildly at Kwava’s legs. This chicken is undeniably purple; the strong, rich purple of pansies and irises.

Kwava Snowfur: (mournfully) I think you are right, John. That is not a goose.

Petunia, the Purple Chicken: Put Pubert down! Put him down! Put him DOWN! DOWNDOWNDOWNDOWNDOWN!

Petunia, the Purple Chicken hurls herself repeatedly against Kwava’s strong legs, causing no damage whatsoever.  

Kwava Snowfur: (mystified) Pubert?

John Buttle: The one you’re holding. I’m guessing that’s Pubert.

Kwava Snowfur: She... talks?

Petunia, the Purple Chicken: DOWNDOWNDOWNDOWNDOWNDOWN!

Kwava Snowfur hurriedly drops her lavender chick, which sails down to the floor with a surprised cheep and bounces off the ivy. His mother bustles after him, clucking angrily.

Petunia, the Purple Chicken: Now, Pubert, you must never go near a Tall Person again! You hear me! They are far too tall! Nothing good ever came of being so tall, and that’s a fact!

Kwava Snowfur: (tentatively) Er, excuse me?

The purple chicken turns back to Kwava and adopts a belligerent stance.

Petunia, the Purple Chicken: What?

Kwava Snowfur: Where is the goose, please?

Petunia, the Purple Chicken: What! What goose! There is no goose here. This is MY castle.

Kwava Snowfur: (crestfallen) There is no goose? A gold one, with shiny gold eggs?

Petunia, the Purple Chicken: How would you like it if I showed up at YOUR house, hauled your children about and bleated about a golden goose! Get on with you!

Petunia, the Purple Chicken turns her back on her rude visitors and hustles Pubert away.

John Buttle: Just a moment!

Petunia, the Purple Chicken eyes John suspiciously.

John Buttle: Aren’t you a bit lonely out here by yourself?

Petunia, the Purple Chicken: Nope.

John Buttle: Really, aren’t you? And what do you eat? There isn’t much. The castle’s spacious, I grant you, but it’s lacking in a few amenities.

Petunia, the Purple Chicken: What kind of amenities?

John Buttle: Soft places to sleep, the company of other poultry, purple food...

Petunia, the Purple Chicken glances around at her two dozen or so children scurrying merrily through the ivy, and eyes John again.

Petunia, the Purple Chicken: Purple food?

John Buttle: Oh yes, as purple as you like! And plenty of it.

Petunia, the Purple Chicken: Hmm.

Kwava Snowfur: (in a whisper) John, what are you doing?

John Buttle: (grinning broadly) There may be no golden goose, but I’ve got an idea.

 

The scenery depicting the castle fades away. In its place a large field appears, surrounded on all sides by low wooden walls. A series of spacious chicken coops has been set up along one side, and the packed dirt before them is covered in purple grain. A swarm of tiny lavender chicks and older chickens, their feathers swiftly turning sleek and purple, is hard at work devouring every single scrap of food. Their mother looks on fondly from her position atop a straw-covered throne.

On the other side of the field, a workshop has been set up. Several rough-clad workers are constructing a series of smaller chicken coops. Several stand ready, lined up neatly along the fence, though their intended purpose is unclear.

John Buttle and Kwava Snowfur are busily employed in overseeing their little flock, and assisting in the construction of chicken coops. Their work is interrupted by the arrival of a top-hatted gentleman wearing a purple velvet coat and carrying a clipboard. A trio of miniature mechanical dirigibles putters along behind him.

John Buttle takes one look at the newcomer’s eccentric attire and steps forward with alacrity.

John Buttle: Ah! You must be from Gryphta’s Emporium. The chickens are quite ready for you, and the coops!

Theodorus Gryphta: That’s right! Very good, very good. Let’s see.

Theodorus Gryphta consults his clipboard with a fussy air, and makes a few marks with his pen.

Theodorus Gryphta: That’s five coops to start, six chickens in each. Sale price sixty dingbats, and your cut is fifty percent. Is that correct?

John Buttle: Perfectly!

Theodorus Gryphta nods and removes a large roll of dingbats from an ornate pouch hanging at his belt. He counts off a large number of them and hands them to John, in whose hands they immediately vanish.

John Buttle: Pleasure doing business!

Theodorus Gryphta: Indeed. I’ll return next year for another shipment.

Theodorus Gryphta nods and departs, pausing only to issue brief instructions to his dirigibles.

The dirigibles stream away to the chicken coops and pick them up one at a time, carrying them swiftly away out of sight. Soon they return for more. John Buttle and Kwava Snowfur watch this process with great satisfaction, until all the coops are gone.

Kwava Snowfur: I think you should have bargained for more than fifty percent, John.

John Buttle: Nonsense! Why, we’ve made one hundred and fifty dingbats. That’s oodles.

Kwava Snowfur: Yes, but it could have been more!

John Buttle: It’s a lot better than vermin.

Kwava Snowfur: Yes. I was thinking, John. What do you think about cats?

John Buttle: Cats?

Kwava Snowfur: Shiny ones! The people with the manses would like those quite as much as purple chickens, wouldn’t they?

John Buttle: (suspiciously) Where are we going to find shiny cats, Kwa?

Kwava Snowfur: Apparently Celest is covered in them.

John Buttle: Kwava! You cannot steal cats from Celest!

Kwava Snowfur: But why not? They have more than they can possibly use! And we would only need two, a man one and a woman one. Whyever not, John?

John Buttle: (with a weary sigh) Okay, okay. Try not to get caught.

 

Kwava Snowfur claps her enormous hands rapturously and departs at a run, leaving John Buttle to roll his eyes in exasperation at her retreating back.