Chapter Two

Nightfall was still an hour or two away, and while the sun gave the air less of its warmth at that dwindling hour, it warmed the color of the sky and the earth in a quieting, delightful way. Doug and Spitzy walked side by side at a casual pace as they passed the first houses and huts at the outer edges of the village of Glen Illyan. This particular community was known far and wide for being quite a progressive place, where canines and felines of varied breeds lived together in intentionality and peace. Spitzy was  on the small side of the spectrum, as far as her species goes, but she always felt like a giant when she visited this particular place- with obvious reason, of course. And she had visited before, several times in fact, with Doug and his sister Tugg (Tuggetha, if you wanted to elicit a sharp bark and a smart nipping from the lass; safer to stick with her nickname). The siblings had gone through a phase of serious interest in their family tree, and had taken several trips to the village to learn more about distant family members who had lived there.

A home here and there quickly turned into bunches of dwellings all around as they continued onward. In no time at all they had reached the center of the village, which was a smaller-than-large expanse with a firepit and gathering area around it; also contained in the center's open space were grass patches as well as places where tiny paws clearly trod often in play, reducing the ground to dust and dirt. And in fact on this evening the small community was abuzz with activity, kittens chasing puppies, dogs and cats preparing picnics for their families. A group of females sitting around the fire had taken up raucous song and dance, singing at times both in English and in their ancient tongue, Caéttish.

Oh I once saw a lass,

With tadpoles fer toes,

Who wore a glass

Upon 'er nose.

Ay, Meowmers O'Quinn

She'd tickle yore feet

And when y' jumped up

She'd steal yore seat!

Meow-mers, Meow-mers,

Meow-mers O'Quinn, bless me hat!

Meow-mers, Meow-mers,

Meow-mers O'Quinn, wot a cat!

Sometime during the verse, a poodle had joined in with a fiddle, and as the singing dissolved momentarily to laughter, hollering, and silly dancing, the fiddle continued on. Spitzy and Doug had absolutely no desire to join in, but were having a considerably lovely time witnessing the spontaneity of the scene. Soon the singing picked up again in that ancient speech that was nowhere near recognizable to the pug, nor to the llama. 

Mrrrrow, meeeow, mew MEW, mew

Myow, Yow, Yow, mrow mrow purrup....

Smiling, the friends wandered toward what was commonly referred to as the GIGH, or the Glen Illyan Guest House. These days, free guest houses were becoming more common, the GIGH had been a beacon of welcome and hospitality for many decades, pre-dating any current trend. The cabin, as it appeared, was completely free to travelers, and was kept up in a joint effort between several village residents and the visitors who made use of it. 

An otter turned his head over his shoulder in acknowledgement of the newcomers as they entered the cottage. He was quietly chopping some watercress, and as Doug and Spitzy stood reacquainting themselves with the place in the entryway, which opened to the right, into a kitchen and space to eat, he retreated to the rustic porch off of the front of the building to be alone with his thoughts and to watch the coming dark extinguish the remaining light in the sky.

A quick stroll through the hallway served to inform the pair that it was a rather empty house on that evening. They claimed a room, pulled out Doug's choicest marbles (he had had to leave so many behind...), and began to entertain themselves. Since entering the village, they'd been quiet in the way that close friends will often feel comfortable being with each other.

Clack!-snort.

“Didn’t mean to do that,” murmured Doug as his play pushed one of his own marbles out of position.

“Ohho, Dougie boy, youuuu’re done for,” Spitzy said matter-of-factly, largely trying to push her friend’s buttons, only half paying attention, and not at all in a particularly competitive mood (after all… they were playing at marbles).

The pug licked his nose in consternation and wiggled his rear as he repositioned himself ever-closer to the floor for maximum… balance?... and, finally set up to his liking, flicked forth his paw to hopefully recover some of the ground that he had lost. A second later it became clear that the damage had been done, and that Spitzy would be the victor in another few turns no matter what happened. “You’ve basically won,” he said, as he lifted himself into standing position and trotted toward the door. “I’ll grab us some grub.”

Walking carefully on his hind legs, Doug returned carrying a tray with water, a mess of greens mixed with a variety of fruits and vegetables, some chicken, and two small dishes of berry trifle. (One of the most notable ways in which the GIGH served its visitors was in regularly stocking the kitchen with fresh food, the accumulated extras from farmers around the village. And this was a land of abundance, and there was always more than enough.)

It was night, now, dark enough outside the two windows in the room that nothing could be viewed from inside. Spitzy went to town on the salad while Doug gnawed at the meat, unable to surpress tiny grunts as he ate. A minute or two into their meal and conversation, Tap. The two looked in near-perfect synchronicity toward the window, where something – bird? rock? branch? – had caused a sharp rap against the glass. It was impossible to see anything, though, and the tap did not repeat itself, so the two carried on noshing and chatting. 

“I’m just saying that I didn’t sign up for any sort of life-threatening excursion with this book report research,” Spitzy joked. They were again discussing the poetic directions (specifically the line about the winged guard) that promised to get them the help they needed to succeed in their quest. For the land in which the eagles existed was a place that was generally thought of as most likely real; but many, and probably the majority of folks, in fact, would never venture there in the entirety of their lives. And the ruler of this land was said to be a watchful king, brutally just, honorably protective of his subjects and exceedingly cautious and wary of foreigners.

"Don't be anxious over that line; I think if the Bette family had dark murderous tendencies, we'd know about it. They're pretty high-profile."

"Yes..." (munch munch munch) "....But people with money have the power to cover that stuff up!" She sounded almost excited at the prospect.

Snort. "Whatever," and the pug smiled into the chicken leg that he was gnawing at.

Spitzy, sitting down, kicked playfully at Doug. "You wont be saying "whatever" when we're fleeing for our lives and you can't keep up with me. Something about how you don't have to outrun the winged harbinger of death- just the other guy...."

There was always something to tease (or be teased) about, and always in good humor, but eventually the pair lost interest in such verbal sparring for the time being and turned in, their stomachs full and their minds largely free from burden.