Beast called Zeezo

The paper bag of beans in Beast called Zeezo’s coat pocket was losing an argument with the Roast Loft. The Loft’s smell had been out on the avenue before the sun, rich and dark and sure of itself, and the little bag kept rustling as if it wanted a second go.

Inside the door, the whole Cafe stood facing the long slate. Cass Ilori had a stub of chalk in one hand and last week’s posts in the other, and was reading them out one by one, slowly, the way you read things that might come true. Outside, the striped awning flapped over the avenue in its three colours. Somebody near the window said, for the third time, that the third colour had been a mistake. Somebody else said it had been on purpose, and that was the whole point.

Beast called Zeezo had found a chair by the door and was trying not to lean on it, because it wobbled.

A Koala crouched beside it, peering underneath with a frown. They tipped it back, looked, and set it down again.

“Who made it?” Beast called Zeezo asked, because that was how you said you liked something here.

“That’s what I’d like to know,” the Koala said. “I’m Osric. Every chair in this room has its maker’s name burned under the seat, and every maker came in and watched me do it. Not this one. Bare as an egg.” They patted the seat. “It turned up one morning. I’ve been waiting a good while for somebody to claim it.”

At the edge of the slate, half hidden by a post about the Hum, a cup sleeve was pinned with a single tack. Someone had inked a small arrow on it, pointing toward the side door, and under it a date: Wednesday.

Beast called Zeezo knew a trail when they saw one. Narrow streets ran off behind the Cafe like cracks in a cup, and the arrow pointed straight down the narrowest. Somewhere along there, maybe, was whoever had made a chair and never come back for their name. By Wednesday the trail could easily be gone.

They took half a step toward the side door.

A Piglet by the counter turned their head at once. They had a ladle in one hand and the look of someone counting.

“Mabyn’s listening for this season’s last cordial,” Osric murmured. “Names it after a post that came true. Can’t abide anyone wandering off before the end. Says they only come back for the drink.”

Cass was perhaps a third of the way down the slate. The Board Turn would run long past dawn, and Beast called Zeezo had never once walked out of a gathering before its last word. They didn’t intend to start on their first morning.

So Beast called Zeezo unpinned the sleeve, very gently, and folded it into the bag of beans. Then they sat down properly on the wobbling chair, in front of everyone.

“Keep this one for me,” they told Osric. “Till Wednesday. If there’s a maker down that arrow, I’ll bring them in to watch you burn it.”

Osric looked at the bag, then at the chair, then at Beast called Zeezo. “And if there isn’t?”

“Then I’ll have had a nice walk,” Beast called Zeezo said.

Mabyn turned back to the ladle. Cass read the next post. Under the seat, the bare wood stayed bare, and nobody in the room seemed to know why the iron had never touched it.