The Irish Hills
AUTHOR'S NOTE -- Just a character piece ... with my two favorite characters ...
"Hardened by my suitcase, tryin' to find a warm place ... to spend the night," sang the soft, midnight voice on the FM radio. Coming out of Fort Wayne/Columbia City. Approaching the edge of its range ... as indicated by the creeping static and fuzz. "Heavy rain a fallin' ... seem to hear a voice a callin' ... it's alright."
"Field ... "
"Rainy night," swooned the radio, "in Georgia."
"Field ... "
The glow of approaching headlights. And the resulting fade.
"Rainy night in Georgia," the voice whispered. "And I feel like it's a raining. Raining all over the world ... late at night, it's hard to rest. Hold your picture to my chest." Pause. "I feel fine," the singer breathed. A sultry, slightly-Southern femme ... " ... raining all over the world. Raining all over the world ... "
"Field," was Adelaide's insistent whisper. Her shoulders a bit drooped. She, like him, was tired, but ...
"Mm? Mm!" the mouse went, blink-blinking, jerking forward, paws reaching out and gripping on the dashboard. He blinked. "Mm," he went, licking his lips and ... yawning. "I ... "
" ... was sleepin'," said the bat. Smiling. Half-looking at him. Half-looking at the road ahead.
The mouse didn't argue. Just asked, in a fighting-a-yawn kind of way, "What ... what time is it?" It came out as an airy whisper. That borderline effeminate ... voice of his.
"12:01." The pink-furred bat's eyes drifted to the digital clock ... near the radio dial. They were in the car. Driving.
A pause. "The car turn into a pumpkin yet?" Field asked, taking a deep breath through the nose. Which sniffed. Which twitched.
"Not yet."
A pause. "Have we?"
"Turned into pumpkins? Heh ... let me check," was her playful response. "Paws, fangs, tail ... nope, I'm still a fur. You?"
"I think so," was his hesitant reply.
Which made her giggle.
Field breathed. And breathed, and ... sank bank in the passenger seat. "Where are we?"
"Just passed, um ... Muncie. Still on the interstate. I-69."
The mouse nodded quietly, unblinking. Tired. Too tired to ... make any sort of veiled, yiffy comment about the name of the inter-state (but, then, even if he HADN'T been tired, he was never the type to be crude). Just nodded. Just leaned back.
They were returning from the Irish Hills.
The Irish Hills of Southern Michigan. East of Coldwater, but maybe only a dozen or so miles north of the state line ... a beautiful area. Wooded. With farmland, and ... more antique stores than you could shake a tail at. You'd never seen so many antique stores.
They had gone up there for the Indy Car race.
Which had been rain-delayed ...
"That looks like rain."
"I thought the forecast," said Adelaide, shutting the door. Locking it. "Thought it said no rain ... "
"Well ... " Field adjusted his backpack. It was getting cooler. The air was. And that was a relief, really. But the sky did look foreboding. "Well, they said, yesterday, that ... YES for rain, and then I looked last night, and again this morning ... and they didn't even mention it."
"Cushy job, huh? Bein' a weather-fur? Get paid for being wrong half the time?" the bat said, smiling, starting to move out of the vast out-field parking lot ... maneuvering through parked cars.
Her mate scurried after her, sniffing. Twitch-sniffing, and his ears like little dishes. Swiveling and ... trying to pick up things. "I can smell it. Can you smell it?"
"Smell what?" She sniffed the air. She wore a white tank-top. And shorts.
Field wearing a plain, button-up t-shirt and jean shorts ... both of them dressed for the heat ... but, really, when you had fur, ANY heat was ... uncomfortable. "Rain!"
"It's not raining yet. I think it's just clouds ... it'll pass over."
"What?" The mouse caught up with her. They were nearing the end of the lot, and approaching the gates. The crowd of furs wasn't MASSIVE ... not like it would've been at Indy. 50,000 furs here ... compared to 300,000 there, but ... the ones here were scattering, as if they knew something. "Know it's gonna rain. They know it's gonna rain. We should get under the grandstands ... once we get there."
"Field, calm down." She knew (very well) he was scared of storms. "We'll be fine."
"What if the race is rain-delayed? What if ... what if they can't run it today? What if ... "
She also knew (very well, too) that he was consistently anxious. "We'll just ... roll with it, okay?"
Field paused. Blinked. Frowned. "Roll with it?" And started moving again, scurrying to catch up with her. Her pace was ... purposeful. Graceful. His was a bit scattered. And it seemed he was always playing catch-up.
They reached the gates. Presented their tickets (forty dollar tickets ... not bad, really, for top row on the front stretch; not bad at all ... but, then, not all the seats would be filled, so ... demand no being SO high, prices could be a bit lower than maybe the value truly was). The stubs were torn off, and they went through, and ... were quite easily at the grandstands. The outsides of them.
Adelaide squinted. The sun wasn't out. It had been out on the whole drive up here, but ... where had it gone? Behind the gray, pushing clouds. Behind the cooler front that had just rolled in. Behind it all ...
... and, behind her, Field chittered, "I need to go to the bathroom."
She turned around. "Then go," was her smiling response.
"Well ... wait for me?" he asked shyly. The crowd of myriad furs, all in racing hats and gear, and some with headphones to listen to the drivers' in-car radios ... as they all jostled past. A sea of color. A sea of murmurs. Like a tide of intermingling life. Currents of ignored suggestion.
"Course," was her whisper. Was her widening smile. "Just go. I'll wait here."
A nod-nod, and he ... scurried off. And, upon returning, he stayed and waited while she went and used the restroom. Fidgeting nervously, holding his tail in his paws. Wide-eyed, but ... not liking being alone in a crowd.
By the time Adelaide returned, the brooding skies had ... let forth. Had opened. And the rain came. Pouring. Pretty hard, too, and the resulting breeze it brought with it ... was either heavenly or unfortunate (depending on your temperament).
So, they, along with the other furs, huddled under the grandstands ... waiting (and hoping) for the rain to stop.
It did. An hour later. And, after two hours of track drying, the race got underway after 6 PM (having been scheduled to start at 3:30) ... the whole thing had ended around 8:20 ... the race going fairly fast, actually. Only one caution. No wrecks. Only one car out of the race, and an average speed of about 200 miles per hour ... which, if it WASN'T the record, had to have been close to it.
But, in the car now, and after midnight ... and hours away from the Irish Hills ...
" ... sorry about Sam."
The mouse blinked. "Mm ... well ... he'll come back. Still three races left." Field's favorite driver, Sam, had been the ONE car out. With some kind of mechanical deal. "Anyway, he won Indy." A pause. "That's all that matters," was his serious, Hoosier-hued reply.
Adelaide had to smile at that. "Well, he can still win the title, too ... only eight points back now. It was a good race, though. Glad we came ... yeah?"
"Mm?" A blink. He WAS tired. "Yeah," he whispered, adjusting his seatbelt. Felt like it was choking him. "Yeah."
"Aside from the rain, but ... I mean, it was kind of neat. Kind of ... an experience," she offered. "Plus, we got to see the WHOLE race. A whole race. Always fun."
The mouse looked to her. With that genuine ... wide-eyed sense. That ... sense. That ... mousey-ness. Looked to her. And smiled softly. "Yeah," he whispered, dimples showing on his furry cheeks.
Field had fallen asleep shortly after passing Fort Wayne, Indiana's second (or was it third) largest city. Indianapolis was first ... million furs. Easy. Then ... then what? Fort Wayne, South Bend, and Evansville ... all around 200,000 furs. Not that it was a contest. Not that it mattered to anyone but a proud Hoosier mouse.
He figured it must be the second-biggest.
But ... cities were foreign to him. Alien. He was of the countryside. Always would be, and always WANTED to be ... the thought of being trapped in a city gave him chills. Ill feelings. Never ... did he want to lay anchor there.
His home was nature.
Regardless, he'd never seen it (Fort Wayne) before. Never been close to it before, and on the way back, in the dark, his nose, twitching, sniffing, exhaling ... had been pressed to the glass of the window. His body half-turned. Staring out. Hoping to catch a glimpse of the lights from ... whatever downtown there was. But ... he couldn't see. Couldn't see it, if it was there.
Maybe Fort Wayne wasn't real.
Maybe it was just something they told little furs ... maybe everything outside Central Indiana was a dream.
It often felt that way.
Field rarely ventured away from home. Rarely traveled. But he wanted to. He found, when he did, he got this buzz. Seeing all the farm-houses, and the barns, and the fields, and all the little, forgotten towns, and all the main-streets, and all the ... signs, and all the ... just 'wasting' that kind of time. Letting his heart go. Going idle.
And doing it with her.
Restless heart. Idle. Living and loving, and ...
... to go! To go! And where?
The world was so big. And he was so small. And he'd never be able to see all of it.
But how he wanted to ...
... and it was enough to press him to the window when they would pass Fort Wayne. It was enough for him to beg Adelaide that they eat their supper in Auburn.
Explore, young mouse. Explore.
Go forth!
Have onion rings and milkshakes in Auburn. Have grilled cheese.
But, in the end, there was always that sadness. That sadness about traveling. And he figured ... it was the furs in the places he'd never know. It was all the sights he'd see, and wonder ... will I ever come back?
But it was a beautiful kind of yearning, and ... really, it was eclipsed by the joy of discovery, and that made it all worth it.
In Michigan, before they'd come back ... well, before the RACE, even, on the way there, they'd seen Amish furs. In carts and buggies, going down the street. It had been a bit ... quaint? Field, being a farm-mouse, and still living in the countryside (with his mate) was more accustomed to rural life than most. It was in his blood. But he'd never SEEN Amish furs ... and then the antique stores.
Antiquing ... had become a verb!
You could verb your way through antique stores in Southern Michigan, apparently. One stores claimed to have 102,000 books. Field, squinting, shook his head. "No way," he'd whispered. And had wanted to stop and go in there just to see.
Adelaide had resisted. Firstly, because ... they were still twenty miles from the track, and the scheduled start was in an hour (this before they knew about ... and felt ... the rain, upon getting there). Also, "It'd probably smell."
"Smell?" Field blinked.
"102,000 old books? Musty!" she'd chittered. "We both have good noses. I'm not breathing all that dust."
Field considered. And had nodded. "I wouldn't have thought of that," he'd admitted.
"Lucky you got me, then," was Adelaide's giggling reply. Amused by the mouse's curiosity. His cuteness. His energy.
The mouse had gone a bit distant ... and then had asked, "You think they get lake-effect snow up here? I think they would ... "
Anyway, after the supper in Auburn, Field had fallen asleep ... and had been asleep for nigh on an hour, maybe. About. Maybe a minute less. Maybe a minute more.
But the bat, with him asleep, was getting lonely, and to be honest ... getting sleepy herself. They were listening to older, classic country. And general oldies, and ... anyway, she wanted him awake. To converse with her. To keep her company.
And he was now awake.
"I can't believe Indy doesn't have an oldies station."
"Yeah," Field said.
"Yeah?"
"Yeah ... I'm ... agreeing with you," he said quietly.
The bat nodded, her winged arms a bit ... cramped? She wished to stretch them. But she wasn't about to take her paws off the wheel.
"You're tired," Field whispered.
"We both are."
"Do you ... do you want me to drive?" he asked quietly.
She shook her head. No WAY she was letting the mouse drive on the interstate. And at night? She wasn't about to tell him she didn't trust his driving skills ... he'd never gotten into an accident or anything, but ... he was timid. Timidity didn't serve you well on interstates.
"I like Michigan," Field whispered. "I'd like ... you know, like to take my camera up there, and just ... wander around. And take pictures all day." A pause. And, saying, just to make sure it was understood, "I like Indiana better."
"Yeah?" A smile. She looked to him. And then back at the road ahead.
"Yeah," he whispered. "Mm ... but I would like to travel, all the same. I'd ... I'd like to just ... not just to THERE, but that would be a good place to start. I mean, AFTER we explored all of Indiana, of course," he said.
"Of course."
"But ... just take a camera, and some ... stuff, and go. Stay at little motels near little lakes, maybe even GREAT lakes," the mouse said, in a dreamy mood. "And ... and ... "
A giggle-chitter from her. "I think your mind is flying away from you. And I don't think you have the energy to chase it right now."
"Mm ... " A flush. "Yeah." He bit his lip. "Guess you're right." The mouse stole a glance at the clock. A few minutes later than when he last looked, and ... " ... hey," he whispered, "it's Monday morning, isn't it? I mean, we're in Monday now."
"Mm?" Her pink paws on the steering wheel. "Yeah ... mm." A nod.
"Monday," Field whispered. "Monday, Monday ... " A slight grin. "Monday, Monday ... can't trust that day," he hummed.
Adelaide moved her shoulders a bit ... and supplied a soft backing of, "da, da ... da, da, da-da" ...
"Monday, Monday ... Monday morning, it was all I hoped it would be," was his soft, wispy voice. As he wriggled in his seat, eyes closed, singing softly. Tail snaking with purposeful rhythm. "Monday, Monday, can't trust that day. Sometimes, it just turns out that way ... "
" ... oh, Monday mornin'," Adelaide injected, taking over, "you gave me no warnin' of what was to be."
"Oh, Monday, Monday, how could you leave," Field asked/sang, "and not take me?"
The spontaneous duet ... drowned out the radio, and their own thoughts, and went on for several minutes.
Before it tapered off.
When they had come back to Indiana ... from Michigan, crossing the Indiana border, Field had broken into, "Back Home Again in Indiana ... " Singing, spontaneously, "Back home again ... in Indiana! And it seems that I can see: the gleaming candlelight, still burning bright ... "
She'd begun to giggle, but ... nevertheless, joined in. " ... through the sycamore, for me. The new mown hay ... "
" ... sends out its fragrance, through the fields I used to roam."
"When I dream about the moonlight," Field squeaked, "on the Wabash ... how I long for my Indiana home!"
"Ba-ba ... ba ... baaaa!" finished his mate, mimicking a band. She even lightly tapped the horn a few times. Just to add to it.
And Field had started clapping his paws and making cheering noises.
Now. Now ...
... still an hour and a half from home. Or more. Still on the road.
The green signs on the side of the road ... flashed by. The mile markers. The exit signs, pointing to exit ramps, and ...
"Seriously. I wanna travel more," Field whispered. "With you. And ... "
" ... we can attempt to make love in all fifty states?"
"No." A flush. "Unless you want."
A giggle-chitter!
"I didn't think about yiff ALL day," Field told her, as if ... it were some kind of feat.
"Well, what with getting rained on, and having your senses owned by rocketing, rumbling race cars, then ... no, I'd guess not. But, hey, it's a brand new day. It's Monday morning," she said, with a gleam in her eye.
"Well, it'll STILL be Monday morning for another ... eleven or so hours, so ... "
"Well, neither of us is having breakfast until we're good an' yiffed."
"Well, I'm not up for good an' yiffin' ... without some sleep," the mouse said, whiskers twitching. "Mm." A sigh. He closed his eyes. "Mm ... I'm not used to sitting still for so long. It's just ... "
" ... unnatural? For mouses?"
"I have to be moving. And ... sitting in a car for hours, and ... "
"We'll be home soon," she assured gently. "And we'll get to bed. And ... SLEEP first, and ... recharge our batteries for tomorrow."
"Today," Field corrected. "It's already today, remember."
"Tomorrow's today," she said, nodding. "Tricky, the days."
"Yeah. Especially when they're mornings. Or nights. What ... what time is it again?"
"You're confusing me," she accused, giggling. "Mm ... stop it."
"Stop what?"
"Just ... it's night. It's early morning. Just cause it's after midnight, doesn't mean it's tomorrow. I mean ... wait. It doesn't mean it's today. In the morning, it'll be tomorrow."
"The morning will be today. And it IS morning."
"But it's dark. It's still night."
"It's morning."
"Field ... " A tolerant giggle.
The mouse trailed. "Mm ... " He rubbed his eyes. They were tired. Were heavy. He was tempted to ... TRY and fall asleep again, but, for some reason, was a bit too wired now. He couldn't resume slumber. "Mm ... "
"You're makin' mouse sounds again ... squeaky mm's ... "
"Mm?"
"Heh ... well, it's cute, is all. Just ... mm ... heh ... you got ME doin' it!"
A shy smile. In the dark of the interior of the car.
The radio was all static now. They had lost the station. And Adelaide put the radio on scan, scanning for the nearest oldies-type station. Ended up finding one ... 101.7 ... Anderson. And they were approaching their exit on the inter-state. But they still had a good ways east, and a little way south ... to go.
Before they got home.
But they were here to keep each other company. To keep each other awake.
To decipher Monday morning.