by Allan Jones
He was about to close the window when the sound of distant drums caught his ears. He stared out and spotted some long, thin figures scrambling about among the debris just beyond the farthest of the hulks.
He rubbed his eyes, thinking he recognized those stooping, gangly shapes.
“Lizards!” he hissed, alarmed to see the savage brutes so close to the opera house.
But there was something odd about the way the lizards were moving. Instead of skimming low along the ground as they had done when they had chased him and his friends, they were moving in long leaps and bounds. And each of them was clutching a largish bundle in its arms.
“How odd,” he said aloud. He yawned, tired to the bone and far too sleepy to know what to make of what he was seeing.
“I hate those lizards,” he grumbled, shutting the window and firmly turning the latch. Half asleep on his feet, he stumbled across the room and was snoring almost before he hit the mattress.
He awoke early the next morning and for a moment wondered where he was. Then he remembered.
“Twilight of the Dogs!” he muttered to himself, sitting up and knuckling his eyes. “And today I’m going to try and make some sense of the story . . . if it has any sense to it!”
Truth be told, Trundle was almost enjoying himself among the count’s teeming papers. There was something oddly satisfying about creating order out of all that chaos, and he had even discovered in the desk a pen and an inkpot and some sheets of blank paper on which he made notes in his large, round handwriting.
He had lost track of how long he had been working when he heard a soft rustling sound at his back. He turned and saw that a silent albino rabbit had slipped in through the door, carrying a tray that held a steaming cup of tea and a plate of glazed buns.
He blinked uneasily at the red-eyed creature as it glided forward and placed the tray on the corner of the desk.
“Thank you very much,” Trundle said.
With a slight nod, the albino rabbit turned to leave.
“I say,” Trundle added. “How are things going downstairs? Esmeralda’s got them all jumping, I bet!”
The white face remained blank, but the red eyes widened as the rabbit moved to the door and slipped through quickly.
Trundle frowned after the pale creature. “You know something?” he said out loud to himself. “I sometimes get the impression that those animals are more frightened of us than we are of them.”
Trundle spent another entire day up in the tower room. But he had the feeling that his labors had not been in vain. Lighting candles as the evening darkened, he walked slowly around the desk. The seventeen original piles of paper had been reduced to three; the discarded writings heaped like a snowdrift against the wall.
Twilight of the Dogs was starting at last to work as a story. And Trundle found that it wasn’t such a bad story, after all. There was plenty of action, with swordfights and fearsome dragons and kings and queens and evil monsters and dastardly schemes and handsome imperiled heroes and beautiful gallant princesses who rode about on unicorns to save them.
He stretched and yawned. “I must be the only silly soul awake in this entire place!” He sighed, rubbing his red-rimmed eyes.
Yawning, he opened the window, remembering the drums and the lizards from the night before. Would they be there again? he wondered. And if so, what were they up to? Nothing good, he felt sure of that.
He heard the faint boom of the drums. Maybe it was some kind of communication system among the lizards?
“Like someone banging a gong to let you know it’s dinnertime,” he said with a shudder. “And there they are again!”
Sure enough, a band of lizards was bounding along clutching wrapped-up bundles—moving in the same weird way as they had the previous night.
But then something else took his attention. A large hatch opened among the debris, close to the back of one of the hulks. The heads of several dogs appeared. They scrambled out, and Trundle saw that they were all dressed in military uniforms.
“It’s some of those Hernswick Hounds,” Trundle mused aloud. “I suppose the commander has his soldiers patrol the perimeters, just to be on the safe side!” He frowned. “Those lizards are in for a bit of a surprise! There’ll be a big punch-up now, and no mistake!”
As Trundle watched, the lizards bounded closer to where the dogs were gathered. There were about as many hounds as there were lizards. Trundle bit his lip—this was going to be nasty!
But to his amazement, the two groups met face-to-face without so much as a single punch being thrown or a single tooth being gnashed. Trundle stared in puzzlement as the lizards calmly handed their bundles over to the hounds. Almost immediately the hounds zipped back down through the hatch and closed it behind themselves.
Then the lizards turned tail and went scuttling off until they vanished into the creeping mists. But they were no longer leaping and bounding—they were moving along quite normally.
Trundle closed the window and went and sat on his mattress. This needed thinking about!
Despite feeling so sleepy, he racked his brains, trying to understand what he had just seen.
Suddenly he snapped his fingers. “Got it!” he crowed. “Those bundles must contain scraps of powerstone—that’s why the lizards were leaping along like that. The buoyancy of the powerstone made them much lighter. Somehow the commander has done a deal with the lizards—and he’s using them to collect enough powerstone to fly his windship!”
Of course. That made perfect sense.
One thing troubled Trundle as he stretched himself out on his mattress with his arms behind his head.
“I can see what the commander is getting out of the deal,” he said to the pointed ceiling. “But what’s in it for those darned lizards? I can’t imagine them helping the commander out of the kindness of their hearts.” His eyes narrowed. “I wouldn’t trust them, that’s for sure!” he said. “I wouldn’t trust them in a million years!”
Trundle was awakened by a rough paw shaking him by the shoulder and by a horribly cheery voice chirruping in his ear.
“Come on, you slugabed!” Jack said. “I’ve brought you a cup of tea with an optional bun!”
Trundle sat up, glad to see his friend despite the boisterous nature of the merry squirrel’s wake-up call.
He rubbed his eyes and yawned. “How’s it going down there?” he asked.
“Esmeralda has worked miracles,” Jack said. “Things are very nearly finished on the stage and in the auditorium. It looks a treat.” He sat down with a sigh. “But the music is a real problem. It’s wonderful stuff, but there’s so much of it. It goes on forever, and I can’t make ears nor tail of the plot of the opera—if it even has one!”
“Ah, but it does!” said Trundle. “It’s been hard work, and I had to get rid of some truly awful stuff—mostly to do with people moping about because they’re in love with other people who are in love with someone else. Really ghastly! There were pages and pages of it.” He pointed to the heap by the wall. “I dumped the lot! I can’t stand that whiny smoochy drivel.”
“And is the rest any good?” asked Jack.
“Surprisingly, it is,” declared Trundle. “Very good, most of it, now I’ve got the whole thing in the right order. Count Leopold writes like he speaks—with everything back to front and inside out and upside down!”
“But you sorted it?”
“I did,” Trundle said quite proudly, gesturing toward the single neat stack of papers left on the desk. “It’s rather exciting, actually.” He frowned. “I just hope the count will agree with the cuts and the changes I’ve made.” He stood up and trotted over to the desk, where several spread-out sheets of paper were pinned together on the blotter. “Look,” he said. “I’ve made a flowchart of the acts and scenes, showing where they ought to come and how the whole story should work.”
“Amazing!” said Jack, leaning over the chart. “Ahh! I see. Yes. It makes perfect sense to have Bruinhilda’s aria there, leading int
o the battle between the bad dogs and the noble bears. And there’s the ‘Ride of the Volekyries’—that’s got a really good bit of music to it! Stirring stuff. And you’ve put the coronation of the king right at the end, just where it ought to be!” Jack slapped Trundle on the shoulder. “You’re quite the editor, my lad.” He beamed. “This is splendid work!”
Without any warning, two huge white paws came clamping down on their shoulders. If the weight hadn’t held him down, Trundle might well have leaped clear out of his prickles with the shock.
“It is splendid, indeed!” boomed the count. “This here is my most wonderful work! With it, will I tour the Worlds!”
And with that, the count reached past them and grabbed up the chart and the pile of papers that represented the fruits of all Trundle’s labors.
Twilight of the Dogs
An Epic Opera in Three Acts
Words and Music by Count Leopold of Umbrill
“Excellent, excellent,” said the count, striding to the door and disappearing through it. “A genius am I!”
“It drives me crazy, the way they can creep up behind you without a sound,” said Jack. “How do they do that?”
Trundle stared after the vanished count. “Thanks for all your help, Trundle,” he murmured under his breath. “I couldn’t have done it without you, Trundle.” He sighed. “Oh, don’t mention it, count. It was my pleasure!”
Roaring with laughter, Jack slapped him on the back. “Never you mind, Trundle old lad,” he said. “Editors never get the appreciation they deserve!”
Jack and Trundle descended from the high tower room and came out into the auditorium. The transformation that had taken place in the opera house was amazing. Order had been created out of chaos. The place looked almost ready for an audience to arrive and take their seats. Brightly painted scenery was being moved into position on stage, and around the walls, animals on carefully held ladders were gilding a final few ornaments and polishing up the last of the woodwork. Trundle was also quite pleased to see Sheila the stoat, up near the ceiling, looking none the worse for wear, hooked into a safety harness and roped up to two stout bears, flicking with a feather duster at the huge chandelier.
Esmeralda was sitting midstage on a papier-mâché throne, checking props and costumes that were being presented for her approval by an orderly procession of albino animals. Beneath her feet was the completed revolving stage, from under the edges of which spouted the odd wisp of steam and from beneath which echoed the odd clank, rumble, and clang.
Trundle and Jack approached their friend. “Hmmm,” she was saying to a raccoon who was standing patiently at her side with several glittery props in his arms. “The silver paper on the crown looks fine, Rocky, but you need to give the orb a bit of a polish.” She clapped her hands. “Everything else looks perfect. Well done, everyone!” She spotted Trundle and Jack and grinned at them. “Hello, boys,” she said. “The count came bounding down in great spirits a few moments ago shouting that ‘It is all in best order and finished.’” She pointed down to the orchestra pit. “He’s busy giving his instructions to the conductor. Looks like you did a first-rate job there, Trun.”
“You, too,” said Trundle, gazing around admiringly.
“I seem to have a natural talent for motivating people,” said Esmeralda.
“Yes, it’s called being a bossyboots.” Jack grinned.
Esmeralda stuck out her tongue at him and then laughed.
Trundle was gazing down into the orchestra pit. The chinchilla conductor was standing on his tall plinth in his tail suit and white tie, nodding and pointing while the count loomed over him. Trundle’s opera chart was spread on the podium, and the count was talking rapidly and making wide gestures with both arms.
“Have you it, mousetro?” asked the count.
“You go too quick!” complained the conductor.
“But have you it, yes?”
“Yes, yes, I have it!”
“Then is all good!” boomed the count, straightening up and letting his voice roar out through the opera house. “Wonderful is it all! At two o’clock this afternoon will there be dress rehearsal! Last touches finish, and then for lunch will everyone break.”
A few busy hours later Esmeralda, Jack, and Trundle were sitting quietly together at the side of the stage, their legs swinging as they nibbled their gruel sandwiches. All over the auditorium, worn-out animals were also having a well-earned break.
“This stuff is just awful,” moaned Esmeralda, putting her sandwich aside and making a disgusted face.
“Really?” said Trundle, eating appreciatively. “I was thinking it reminds me of home.”
“It would.” Jack sighed, chewing slowly. “It tastes like week-old cabbage!”
“I think we should have a quick word with the commander,” said Esmeralda, nodding over to where the fat old bulldog was sitting in a circle of his Hernswick Hounds. Trundle had told her all about the nocturnal activities of the soldier dogs and the lizards, and she was determined to find out whether he had guessed correctly.
The three friends headed over to the ring of dogs and stood at the commander’s side.
“We know where you’re getting your powerstone from,” Trundle said in a low voice. “I saw your people and the lizards together last night.”
The Commander frowned at him. “Fine chaps, those lizards,” he barked. “They’re a bit of a rabble, but show ’em some authority and they soon rally round the flag, don’t you know. Meek as dormice. Most obliging fellows.”
“And have they given you enough powerstone to fly out of here yet?” asked Jack.
The commander’s voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper. “Last night was the final consignment,” he hissed. “All in order. Final checklist and we’re off. Splendid job! First rate!”
“You still haven’t told us how you plan on getting the windship out from under the dome,” said Esmeralda.
“Aha! That’s all in hand, young lady!” said the Commander. “We’ve been systematically weakening the roof beams over the past weeks. Sawing through ’em, don’t you know. All carefully planned. When the ‘Ride of the Volekyries’ reaches its crescendo, my most reliable hounds will make their way up to the dome and saw through the remaining supports. The dome has powerstone attached. It’ll simply float away! Then we get everybody aboard, and sail off! Mission complete!”
He eyed them suspiciously. “You’ve been collaborating with the enemy,” he growled. “Bad show! But you helped to keep that nutty old Lion busy while we finished our work—so there are places on the windship for the three of you, if you’re interested.”
“How do you plan on getting through the whirlwinds up there?” asked Jack.
“No problem!” declared the commander. “Expert navigators aboard. Excellent windshipmen. They’ll find a way through. Absolutely!”
“You mean the same excellent navigators who got you marooned here in the first place?” said Esmeralda. “I see.” She turned to Trundle and Jack, twirling her fingers at the side of her head and going cross-eyed.
“And if you do break through, where will you be heading?” asked Trundle.
“Back to Hernswick,” snapped the bulldog. “Reporting for duty! Imperative I explain absence from the flotilla. Court-martial otherwise!”
“So you wouldn’t be going anywhere near Hammerland, then?” asked Trundle.
“Rather not!” said the Commander. “Totally wrong direction! Needed back at base. Absent without leave. Must report to the high command.”
“In that case,” Esmeralda said, “good luck with the winds, matey. We won’t be coming with you.” She patted him on the shoulder, mimicking his way of speaking. “But jolly good luck, old chap! First rate and all that! Spiffing! Absolutely spiffing!”
She turned and walked away from the goggling hounds and their spluttering commander. “Come on, boys, we’re done with these loonies! We’ll stay with the count and hitch ourselves a free ride to Hammerland.”
�
�Extraordinary!” huffed the commander. “Young women these days! Absolutely extraordinary!”
Esmeralda and Trundle found themselves a couple of good seats in the front row. It was almost two o’clock. The curtain had been drawn down, hiding the stage. The orchestra was tuning up, and a sense of anxious anticipation filled the auditorium.
Sitting silently all around the two friends was a delegation of steam moles, all in long black leather coats, all wearing thick glasses and all writing things down in spiral notebooks. Congregating in the other seats were all the animals who had worked so long and hard to get the opera house ready for the grand dress rehearsal.
Down in the orchestra pit, Jack sat among the other musicians, all of them taking a last look at their musical scores, warming up their instruments, and waiting for the mousetro to give the sign that meant everything was ready for the overture to begin.
There was no sign of Count Leopold, but occasionally his voice could be heard booming out from behind the curtain.
Then . . . at long last . . . an expectant silence descended.
The mousetro beat his baton thrice on the podium.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
The music began, starting low but then swelling up like rising floodwaters, filling the entire auditorium with sound as the melody grew and grew.
“Blimey!” hissed Esmeralda, leaning close to Trundle. “This doesn’t sound half bad after all!”
“Shhhh!” hissed a dozen steam moles.
Trundle stared around himself with his mouth half open. He was tingling with nervous excitement all the way from his spiky head to his furry toes. He was about to hear, for the first time, the opera he had been working on solidly for the past three days! Would anyone like it? Would it get booed? Would the count blame him if it fell flat? He crossed all his fingers and toes, his heart palpitating.
The curtain rose to reveal a landscape of purple mountains under an orange and flame-red sky. In among the saw-edged mountain peaks stood the ancient fortress of Bruinhilda, warrior maiden and formidable champion of the noble bears of Volehalla.