He stepped on the ground.
Barefoot.
Painter yelped and leaped back onto the wooden steps, shaking the wagon-room. The ground was hot. Extremely hot; like as hot as a stove.
For the first time, he looked specifically at the clogs everyone was wearing. Liyun and the attendants, in turn, stared at him with horrified expressions. It was the same sort of expression you might have given a person who sat down to dinner, then started eating the plate.
“What is wrong, hero?” Yumi asked. “I recognize you are mighty and strong, but there is no reason you need to walk without shoes.” She frowned, glancing down at his bare feet.
“This place is…” He trailed off, not wanting to spoil the illusion for Liyun and the attendants. Finally, he took a deep breath and slipped on the pair of clogs by the door. It seemed he hadn’t burned himself too badly, as the pain was fading, but he was still timid as he stepped onto the ground.
The procession started off. Painter felt proud of how well he walked in the thick clogs; they looked more awkward than they actually were. He merely had to be deliberate with each step. He looked to Yumi, but she lowered her gaze and seemed reticent. Even more than earlier. What had he done this time?
There were plenty of other oddities to occupy his attention. For example, the attendants held out big fans to hide him from the eyes of the gathering townspeople. That left gaps through which he could be seen though, and apparently the entire town had lined up to catch a glimpse of him.
Why the pageantry? Couldn’t they have pulled him in the wagon to this new location? This halfway measure with the fans felt deliberate—like pretending not to care if anyone noticed your new haircut, but running your hands through it every time anyone glanced your way.
There were also those floating plants—but at least he’d seen those from the wagon. So he didn’t gawk. Much. But then there was a very odd contraption at the center of the town—a big shiny metal thing made of wide sets of plates, as big across as a building. What was that all about?
At least the people looked human. He would have expected aliens from another planet to have…he didn’t know. Some extra appendages? Seven eyes? Instead they were just people. Mostly eager-eyed, in bright clothing of a completely different fashion and design than he was used to. It reminded him of formal dresses and wraps worn at weddings among his people—at least the colors were similar. But these outfits were far bulkier, particularly on the women, whose dresses were bell-shaped instead of sleek and tight as was common in Kilahito. The men wore clothing that was loose and baggy—often pastel, with a watercolor softness—tied closed at the ankles. They accented these with the occasional black hat, and many wore neat short beards, which you rarely saw among Painter’s people.
The townspeople stayed behind as Painter was led to some nearby hills. Close to the top, his attendants and he entered a secluded alcove where a pool of water filled a natural basin perhaps fifteen feet across. It looked to be only about waist-deep, and no steam rose from it. That was a good sign. Painter was already sweating. How did these people live here with that giant ball of fire in the sky constantly glaring at them?
His attendants drew to a halt outside as he stepped up to the edge of the pool. Yes, this part should be nice. He looked to Yumi, who had followed him past rocks that provided privacy. She was blushing furiously. Why…
Ah. Suddenly it made sense. She couldn’t get more than ten feet or so from him, but he had to take a bath.
“It’s all right,” he whispered to her. “Just go behind those rocks over there and sit down.”
“Hero?” she said. “That wouldn’t be appropriate.”
Then she began to disrobe, undoing the bow on her dress. She was some type of ghost, but it seemed her clothing was part of whatever she was, because she was able to remove the overdress and set it down, leaving her in an underdress akin to a thin nightgown.
“Wait,” he said. “That wouldn’t be appropriate? But this is?”
“I may be in spirit form,” Yumi explained, “but I am still the yoki-hijo, and must follow the directions of the spirits. I must do my ritual cleansing. If we’re going to figure out what it is they have sent you to do, then I must be pure before their eyes.”
Painter tried to forcibly stifle his blush. He figured that heroes didn’t blush. Unless they…what, had just slain their fourth dragon and had too much to drink?
“Well then,” he said, “we could simply bathe in clothing.”
“You can’t be ritually cleansed that way,” she said. “Besides, Chaeyung and Hwanji would think that very strange.”
She nodded to the side, where his two attendants were walking up to join him. He’d assumed they were staying behind to give him privacy, but in fact they’d stopped to gather some soaps. And evidently to disrobe.
Because neither was wearing a scrap of clothing.
For a moment, Painter was rooted in place. Naturally it wasn’t out of embarrassment, as he was a mighty hero or some such rubbish. It was probably something far more heroic. Like indigestion.
“At least they see you as me,” Yumi said, “so you will not embarrass them.”
Embarrass them.
Right.
That was what he was worried about.
The two set aside their soaps and began to undress him, because of course they did. Now, if you should ever find yourself in a similar position, this would be the place to call a stop to it. It doesn’t matter if you’re in a story, or if the fate of the world is at risk, or if it’s merely the result of a few stupid decisions. You never need to let someone undress you if you’re against the idea.
Painter, however, was determined to help. To not mess up this chance like he’d messed up his real life. So he tried to play it off as nothing. He did so poorly, mind you, but one might admire his gumption. You could have assumed his blush to be due to the heat, and he almost managed to look stoic. Until he glanced at Yumi, who had pulled off her underdress but clutched it awkwardly to her chest. Her long, shimmering black hair falling over her shoulders and around her arms.
“You…must have done this hundreds of times,” Yumi said to him, her eyes lowered. “Been…in situations like this. With women. A hero like you would be revered and lauded.”
“Uh…” Painter said. The attendants glanced at him. “I’m talking to a spirit,” he said to them. “Please, um, ignore me.”
They frowned at this, but pulled off his own undergarment.
“It’s…something very new to me,” Yumi said. “Do you suppose maybe you could…avert your gaze?”
Oh. Right. That was an option, wasn’t it?
Now, you might be a little upset at Painter for not realizing this earlier, as it was the obvious gentlemanly thing to do. Please do remember, this had all come upon him rather unexpectedly. It’s hard to be gentlemanly when the world isn’t being particularly gentle with you.
But if you can’t be a gentleman, you can at least not be a creep. Painter closed his eyes.
The attendants led him into the water, which he found warm. This was the cold spring? They began bathing him with the ritual soaps, and didn’t exclaim or run screaming at the discovery of certain unexpected bits, so Painter assumed that the illusion—or whatever it was—worked absolutely, even to those touching him.