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.

Chapter One

--I began to tell this story in May, as an exercise. It is still in progress. I am not practiced or talented when it comes to telling long stories and I hope to just.. see where it goes. Haven't really tried my hand at this kind of writing since grade school. Here's ch.1--


Snort. snarfle.

It was the best he could do to express his desire to enter his old friend's house - knocking was certainly out of the question, and he tended to feel a bit rude kicking at someone else's door. No, as long as he projected a bit, this should do the trick.

A moment. And then, from inside, the distinctive (and on this day, especially excited) thumping of Spitzy's feet as she pronked her way towards the door. Two seconds more, the door began to open, rigged up to a button on the floor that only needed pressing to allow admittance. Home ownership as a llama came with its own set of challenges, but nothing so far that couldn't be handled with a bit of creativity. 

Doug the pug immediately sprang up towards his friend's back with the typical grace and majesty expected of his breed of canine, as she flexed lower to the ground in a wobbly manner, and then the two were nearly at eye level (though unable to face each other). Once mounted, Doug rode with an posture of victory, pride, and dignity, though he felt none of these things in any conscious way; this was just a smart logistical choice so that the two could talk and keep up with each other. A typical arrangement. "Hey Dougereedooo-oo-ooo!" A small uncontainable extra little bounce.

"Hello," with a chuckle. A bit less effusive, perhaps, but then tail-wagging told a different story.

Spitzy bobbed towards the kitchen. Laid out and ready to go were most of the necessary provisions for the professional-grade adventure that the two now prepared to embark upon shortly. Indeed, they had both heard tell of a foreigner-than-foreign land where giant eagles - eagles the size of more than several llamas laying on the ground in eagle configuration - soared through open skies. It was for this place that llama and pug were bound, for the friends had a class presentation due in two weeks on the subject of aviary predators, and perhaps if they could bring one of these fabled birds to school that day, their teacher would be distracted enough to overlook the fact that neither had written their mandatory reports.

And so, all hope rested on the success of this journey.

"Rice krispie treats... 'nilla wafers... kumquats (have you been burglarizing Farmer Maggot's crops again?)... capri suns... yes, we may as well bring every last one of those," Doug rattled off the items as if cross-checking against a mental inventory list. He tugged and tucked each into a pair of saddle bags, and soon the friends were maneuvering them into a position of balance over Spitzy's back. From a small rucksack hung about his waist Doug pulled a pin, the background image of which were a pair of wide bloodshot eyes, and the foreground text which read YAY! Pinning it to the saddle bags, he shrugged and with a hint of defensiveness qualified his action by saying, "I think it's funny." Spitzy hadn't asked.

A few last-minute items made the cut- a small bag of marbles, for passing the time; a few packs of beef jerky; a harmonica, which one of them owned and neither knew how to play in any meaningful way; etc, etc- and within 30 minutes they found themselves standing outside of Spitzy's lighthouse home, surrounded by sounds of ocean and gull, cricket and rock. Wordlessly they set off, pug perched atop of pachyderm.

Spitzy navigated the glorified pile of rocks that lay in a jumble, heaving out of the ocean and bearing the lighthouse she called home, with familiarity and agility. Only once did her feet falter, resulting in a startled *spit* and, from Doug, a sharp fart-toot. The friends sniggled simultaneously, but said nothing, their minds largely preoccupied with what lay ahead. In a few short minutes, she reached the mainland where a breathtaking expanse of grass stretched out for miles with no end in sight, only showing its finiteness in spilling over sheer cliffs that made way to ocean.

Doug settled in on Spitzy's back as she found her stride. The day was clear, the air was slightly warmer than crisp. Faltering every now and again, the pug began reciting a cryptic rhyme, speaking in a manner as if exercising his memory so as not to lose any of the words:

'Neath Bette Manor's bricks

Tiny Grandfather clock ticks;

Behind it, another existence.

The clock at 2

Will let you through

Without any resistance.

Through darkened lair

to find it, there,

Just step into the closet.

Hark! do beware:

The winged guard there

May be your death, or cause it.

The fortunate soul,

Once past first goal,

Best hasten towards the throne.

The gift he shall bring

As fit for a king

Will cease a dying ruler's moans.

Now Traveler, go,

For King shall allow

Peaceful presence in his domain,

And assist in your quest

Royal Guard at your behest

For as long as you remain.

"I'm really impressed that you remember all that." 

A tail wag from Doug.

"Well, we know where Bette Manor is. Have you parsed out what some of these lines could mean, or were you too busy memorizing?" Spitzy grinned a tiny impudent grin.

Indignant snarfle. "The Manor is easy, yes. Detective Bette and his long family history of Detectives as masters of the house, and all that. The bit about the grandfather clock is complete nonsense of course; it must be a riddle, because tiny grandfather clocks don't exist. Seems pointless to look too far past that because until we figure out the clock conundrum, we're nowhere." Doug yanked a Fruit Rollup out of one of the saddle bags and tore into it as he spoke.

"My best guess is that the line refers to a small-sized Grandfather clock, essentially as written. If they don't exist, they should! How incredibly hip would I look walking around town with a tiny Grandfather clock tied around my neck?"

"You would look... so... hip. Incredibly hip, Spitzy."

The llama spasmed her back a bit, to playfully throw the dog off of his balance. Noontime and the afternoon passed in similar fashion, with the llama trotting along with her pug pal perched alertly on her back, banter flying every which way. Their path took them through beautiful but largely featureless terrain, where they encountered other travelers only on a handful of occasions. Afternoon faded to evening, and the pair set their sights on the pursuit of dinner. Glen Illyan wasn't far ahead. Soon there would be hot soup and crusty bread aplenty.

High overhead, the mechanical hummingbird drone that had been trailing llama and pug for the entire day veered suddenly and noiselessly away from their course.