Rivers of Suggestion
Ring-ring-ring ... ding-ding-ding!
Field froze in place. Fearing. Raising nose to the air ... sniff-sniffing. Nose and whiskers twitching. Ears went ... swivel-swivel.
There was no mistaking that sound. And the rumble in the ground. The call of the trolley. The feral, bell-like sound ... of a guard trolley on patrol. On the prowl. And how ... oh, how it hunted. With merciless glee.
"Beware the trolley," was written on the brick wall of the library. Near the alley. With spray paint. "Beware," it said, "the trolley."
It was night, and Field was outdoors. In Sheridan town. He lived in the countryside. He lived, in fact, in another county ... he owed nothing to this place. Yet ... he was here. In the pale moonlight. Trying to do what was right. Risking his life.
Unfortunately, the trolleys were onto him. The trolleys had his scent.
Ring-a-ling ... ling ... ling ...
You always heard them before you saw them. Always. And as wide as they were, and as lumbering as they were ... they, somehow, could always drive through the narrowest alley-ways. They could go off-road. Into fields. It had been said (and Field, for one, believed it), that a fur had been tracked through a corn field. Five feet ... tall. Had been the corn. And the trolley had mowed it down as if it were grass. As if the trolley itself was a combine. It had decimated the field, and ... the fur in question was never heard from again. Word had it that he was being held beneath the high school ...
... but that was neither here nor there.
Field was here. The trolley was here. Sheridan was here.
And there was no way to extricate the three things ... from each other. This was a collision course of fate.
The mouse let out a breath. Breathing ... out, in. Out, in. Slowly, slowly. Don't hyper-ventilate. Don't let it hear your heartbeat.
He backed away from the wall. To the sidewalk. The library behind him, and some kind of video rental/sun tanning place ... some kind of odd-job place (that may or may not have been abandoned; in this town, one could never tell) ... he was between buildings. And stepping off the sidewalk and into the street. There were no cars. Only scars. Little cracks in the pavement ... from where the guard trolley had laid down the law on "rebellious" citizens. The trolleys followed no set tracks. They ran wild.
The guard trolleys didn't actually run this town, however. And neither did the teachers (though they staged such power plays ... that one would assume they were). No, the mind behind this, the law behind this ... was General Sheridan. Rumored to be in cryogenic stasis in the basement of the Quaker church. Heavily guarded. In the interim, it was unknown who was running things FOR the General. If the General was in deep freeze ... who controlled the trolleys? They didn't control themselves.
Jay T. Science, the diabolical science teacher at Sheridan High, and trafficker of illegal, tropical spiders (their venom went big-time on the black market) ... he was the logical conclusion. He was aloof. He had spider farms in the caverns beneath the town. He was a "goofy genius" type. One so out of it ... that their obliviousness kept them safe. Like on cartoon shows ... like how someone was about to get flattened by an anvil, but they saw a penny and stepped out of the way ... just in time. So it went with Jay T. He always escaped ... and unwittingly. Unknowingly. Being gunned at by the other teachers at the school. And by various town members.
Sheridan was in the grips of chaos.
Sheridan needed rescued. Needed redeemed. Rebuilt.
Field would be the mouse to do that. If it killed him (as it just might). He had to get indoors. Somewhere. Indoors. To safety. He had to get to her, in particular. Had to reach her place. He was here ... for her. But there was a curfew in this town, and the trolleys heavily enforced it. After 10 PM, one was ... barricaded indoors. One did not go outside until 6 AM. If one was outdoors during a "restricted" time ... the trolleys sniffed it out. The trolleys took care of it. And the fear of being mauled by a pack of trolleys, oil dripping from their front bumpers like saliva ... oh, what fear. What fear.
Field scurried across the street. To the International Grocers Association store. The local grocery. Which was just another front in a string of fronts ... for the Sheridan Conspiracy. All proceeds from the store ... went to strengthen the "Sheridan Network," a collection of electrical lines, underground cables, and in-orbit satellites ... which linked every town in the United States named Sheridan. Sheridan, Wyoming ... was the Western hub. Sheridan, Indiana, was the Eastern hub. But there were nearly two dozen Sheridan towns. All created by General Sheridan after the Civil War. All stepping stones to world domination. Or more. One could never know. In these times, in this conspiracy ... one never knew.
The mind reeled.
But, to Field, Indiana ... was his home. He was a Hoosier. And this town ...
He walked, cautiously, up the sidewalk. Looking over his shoulder, and then back ahead of him. Senses aflame. Anxiety gripping him ... like talons. Crushing him, squeezing him, begging him for breath. Ears swiveling, dishy ... and tail snaking behind him. Silkily, thinly ... like a rope. And fur bristling. Standing on end. He squeaked quietly to himself ... unable to help it ... moving faster. At a scurry-scurry ... at a hurry.
Ring ... ring-ding ... a-ling ... a-ling ...
The trolley was nearer. It was nearer. Oh, it was nearer ... and the fear.
Field ran ... foot-paws pounding the cement. In this chill. Oh, the air was cold, and ... the trolleys were bold. They could run in negative forty. They could run in the desert sun. They were like wasps, in that regard. Glistening black and brick-red. Their main purpose: to see you dead. No ... no, not dead. Just to see you. And once they did, they would toy with you, like a feline with its prey.
Field ran, ran ... scurry-scurry! Hurry!
The trolley was nearing the south end of main street. The mouse could tell. His ears, his senses ... being as good as they were ... he could tell. And he banked hard-right, and ran ... between the Historical Society (with its revisionist history, written by General Sheridan and his cronies) ... and the grain depot. With its silver bins and metal connectors.
The trolley was on main street. Turning onto the long, barren street ... right as the mouse banked off it. And it rolled at a smooth ten miles per hour ... up, up the pavement. Deliberately swerving back and forth across the double-yellow line. Flaunting its power. Flaunting its control ... of this night. Of this hour. And its yellow headlights pierced the air ahead of it. Revealing everything in its path. It purred. Oh, the trolley purred, and everybody heard (everybody within waking distance).
Field's eyes watered, his sides hurting ... he almost tripped ... as he flew between houses. At a run. The trolley sniffing his scent, starting to turn down the path the mouse had gone. Oh, it would not be long ...
... hunted. Or hunt. Predator/prey.
The trolley was used to having its way.
The mouse was used to enduring. Surviving. Ensuring ... another day. After all, he was prey. He was built that way. To survive. Through all the darkness, through all the pain, through all the bitter cynicism he'd endured, and all the doubtful, hateful things he'd heard ... he maintained a wide-eyed innocence. A gentility. He was so much stronger than he knew.
Ring-ring-ring!
It had found the mouse's scent. It stepped up the speed. Fifteen, twenty, twenty-five miles her hour ... calling for its brethren.
Ding ... ding-a-ding ...
Bong-a-bong-bong ...
The other trolleys, leaving their assigned patrols, began to converge in the center of town. To hunt the mousey down.
Field, in tears, burning from his fears, reached the door he'd been looking for. Fumbled at it. Pulled at it. Squeaked and squealed in fear.
The trolleys were so very near!
And the door was unlocked from the other side, and Field, still tugging on the knob, nearly flew into the grass as it swung open ... and as paws grabbed his. As they pulled him in. Locking the door behind them. Turning out the lights. Safe from ...
... the trolleys, who ... not a minute later ... glided by ... down the street. Purring their motors and sniffing the air. Many mice lived in this town. This was a poor town. Church-mice and the like. And the more shady sorts: rabbits and squirrels. Prey. This was a town of prey. Run by mechanical predators. Who took orders from a frozen leader.
This was Sheridan, Indiana.
Field quivered. Quavered. Sanity at a waver. And he breathed, breathed ... and, crying quietly ... sank to the couch. He felt cold. Chilled. And he writhed out of his coat, tossing it to the floor ...
"You okay?" she whispered. Still sanding at the door. Looking to him. And then back out the window. And then back to him. She checked (again) to make sure the door was locked (not that it would do any good), and she took a few paces toward him. She had a soft aura. "Field?"
He looked up. Looked to her. In the dimness of the room.
"You okay?"
He nodded quietly. Having stopped crying (momentarily). His tears, matted on his cheeks ... drying. "I ... I'm sorry."
"For what?" She slipped beside him. To a sit. Her blunted muzzle and her fangs ... visible as she bit her lip. As she betrayed her concern.
"I shouldn't have come."
"You called. I said it was alright." A pause. "I wanted you to come ... " She trailed. "And I know you wanted to ... as well, so ... "
"I was careless, though," he said. Whispering. As she was. As they both were. As every fur in this town did ... after dark. For fear that they were being watched. Eavesdropped on. "I ... I got home from work late, and then ... by the time I tidied up and ... it was after curfew. I parked outside of town," he said. The trolleys had no jurisdiction outside city limits. Though Field often wondered what was stopping them from expanding ... he figured that the real reason was that ... they hadn't the resources to spread their power that thin. The larger the area they controlled, the flimsier the control. Or whatever. The mouse didn't know. Sometimes, the mouse didn't care.
"It's okay ... "
"I parked outside of town, and I tried to scurry here, but they ... almost caught me. I was careless." He'd done this before. Visited her before, at night. Often ... he had reason to ...
The bat tilted her head. Nose doing a subtle flare. "I said it was okay."
He met her eyes. They were pink, like a carnation pink. And they glowed in the pale moonlight that streamed through the windows. Pink like her fur. Like the rest of her. Like her pointed, angular ears. Like her webbed, filmy wings. With stretched from her wrists ... up her arms. Webbing linked her arms to her sides. Bat's wings. Pink, flowery things.
The mouse let out a breath. She was his mate. They hadn't been able to make it official, for the town didn't allow it. The trolleys wouldn't sanction it. Love, as it was ... was forbidden by the trolleys. By General Sheridan and those involved in the Conspiracy. Which meant any mate-ship ... had to be validated in some other way. Had to be hidden.
The trolleys feared love. It bred hope. And hope bred ... good things. And good things would rise up and prevail over any evil.
If the trolleys found out they were mates, the mouse and bat would be hauled off. Locked in the dungeons beneath the school.
So, they had told no one. No one knew. Except each other.
"I'm glad you're okay," she whispered. Feeling lame for saying it. For stating such an obvious thing. But she had to say it.
Field nodded weakly. "I'm sorry ... "
"Stop apologizing." A breath. "That's a bad habit. You have to stop."
"But ... "
"Stop," she whispered. Meeting his eyes. His own eyes grey-blue. "Field ... they didn't catch you. You're here. You're okay."
The mouse sniffled. Absently licking his paw-pads, swiping back his whiskers ... licking the honey-tan fur on his forearms. Grooming. Nervously grooming. Unable to sit still, lest he think about all the close calls ... lest he think about the danger they were in.
"We're safe. The trolleys ... they won't find us." She kept saying that. As if, in some way ... trying to convince herself. As if ... maybe if she said it enough times, it would be true. But they both knew what the trolleys could do.
Field nodded again, swiping back his flimsy, dishy ears. He nodded ... blankly. Eyes open. Haunted.
"Field ... "
"Yeah?" He blinked and looked to her.
"Don't let them stamp you out. Don't let them ... please ... "
"I'm not ... "
"Just stay with me ... "
He wasn't sure if she meant that ... in the mental, spiritual sense, or the physical sense, but ... regardless, he let out a breath. Relieved to have such a refuge. As her. Relieved. Feeling a bit better, and ...
"We need some supper," she said, getting up ... and going for the kitchen. "Or a midnight snack," she said, pausing in the door-frame to the kitchen ... stretching. "More like a snack, mm? You hungry?"
Field watched her. The movements, soft, quiet ... like flight. He could honestly, truthfully tell others ... one day, when he didn't have to hide this. When the trolleys were gone and the conspiracy was over, and they could live their lives ... when that they came, and they asked him why he was so happy all the time, he would truthfully reply, "My love has wings."
"Field?"
"Yes," he said. And took a breath. "Yeah."
A vanilla-scented candle burned on the coffee table. In a glass votive holder. It was, indeed, near midnight, and they nibbled on some French bread. Pecked at some rice (with butter and sugar). And boiled up some peas and carrots.
They ate their little meal on the couch.
Field picked up his water glass. Using both paws to do so, and sipping little sips ... the condensation on the glass wetting his fingers.
Adelaide watched him eat. Smiled.
He looked up, stopped sipping ... and put his glass down. Looking away. "You're making me all self-conscious ... when you do that."
"When I stare at you, you mean?" she asked quietly. Voice smiling.
A nod.
"Saying I should stop looking your way? Want me to ... put my attention elsewhere?"
The mouse considered. "No."
"Then why complain about it?"
"I'm not complaining ... I just ... "
She giggled. "Mm ... " She poked at her rice. Smile fading. And she sat back on the couch. And pulled a multi-colored afghan around her shoulders. The home-knit blanket ... and she squirmed up against the mouse. "Come on ... get in."
"I'm eating."
"You're poking at your food ... you're not eating it. You're not even hungry."
"I am ... " He wasn't, though. Not really. The mouse, a recovering anorexic, was obsessive-compulsive about many things ... including food. He sighed. Put the food aside.
"Field, just ... close your muzzle ... and get under the blanket, huh?"
He did so ...
And she smiled, turning her muzzle ... so her nose was on his cheek. "What am I going to do with you?" Her fangs raked through the fur of his neck.
"No bites," the mouse said weakly (with no conviction). "No bites ... "
"Why not?" she teased.
The mouse just flushed and blushed. Ears flooding with blood, and turning a deeper shade of pink. "Darling ... "
She pulled her muzzle a few inches back. Eying him from close-up.
His own eyes were darting about the darkness. As if waiting for something ... as if expecting something to go wrong. As if waiting for a knock on the door. The mouse took a breath and said, "I'm scared ... " He swallowed. "I've had dreams. I've been having dreams ... "
"What kind of dreams?" The bat, herself, had telepathic abilities ... and had been drawn to Field because of them, claiming the mouse had "a different sort of mind" ... she had been tutoring him on how to unlock his dormant abilities. If he, after all, had them. He wondered ...
"Nightmares." He took a breath. Let it out. And shook his head. Seeming a bit weary. A bit tired. More than a bit. Whiskers twitched. "They spike the water supply ... with venom. Just enough ... altered venom. So, it doesn't kill, but it ... does things to us. And the trolleys take us underground, and ... " He trailed. Picked back up with, " ... and I don't remember the rest."
"That's not very detailed."
"I don't want," he said, meeting her eyes (again), "to remember the details."
"Let me read it," she said.
"I don't know ... it's scary," he said. Swallowing.
"Field ... you love me, right? I love you ... so stop acting like you can't let go. Stop acting like you can't ... let your guard down. You can trust me. I'm not gonna hurt you. I'm not going to abandon you. If I'm forced to, I'll fight for you ... as you would for me. I know how you've been ... tossed aside," she said, referring to the mouse's past relationships. The mouse's pains. "I know how you were treated. I know how confused you've been ... and ... you don't have to be that way with me. You can be certain. You're forgiven. You're brand new ... "
The mouse sniffled, clearing his throat. "Alright ... " He closed his eyes.
The bat closed hers, putting her forehead to his ... and drawing the dream from his subconscious. It only took a second. Her abilities were advanced. And, pulling back, she nodded ... said, "You've dreamt it more than once?"
"Twice," said the mouse. "I just ... I don't know. I'm just so paranoid anymore. I'm so ... tired, Adelaide," he said, meeting her eyes. "Why can't we fly away? Why can't we run away? Why do we stay here?"
"It's our home," Adelaide whispered. "And because we know that ... they're not gonna stop with Sheridan, Indiana ... they'll take Hamilton County, Boone County ... Central Indiana. The whole of the state. Because we're Hoosiers born-and-bred, and ... when everyone else abandons their birthright, we will cling to it. Defend it. Home ... sense of place ... it is not the right of the guard trolleys, or General Sheridan ... to take. It's our home. And if we don't stay and endure it, fight it ... " She let out a breath. "We stay, Field, because we need to. Don't rationalize ... but I know you feel it. You wanna leave? You want us to cut loose and go ... we could always do it, but who's to say it'd be any better? God put us here. Together. Us. Now. Why? I have to think ... I have to believe," she said, "that we're here for a reason. And that part of that reason ... involves this conspiracy. And us stopping it."
Field's heart swelled at the confidence of her words. Swelled at his love for her. At her boldness. At her strength. At her assurance. He wished he had those things ... those qualities she had. Not knowing that, at the same time, she was looking at him and thinking ... how she wished she could be that innocent. That wide-eyed. That gentle. Through all the mouse's sins and failings, he'd come through them ... maintaining that aura. That naivete. Where she, herself, was low-key, grounded ... the mouse had an imagination that was always ahead of him. He was always daydreaming.
They saw things in each other ... that they admired. That they wished to have. And, being together, they felt ... more whole. They filled the empty spots in each other ... they filled each other's voids.
Field was a country mouse through-and-through. Stubbornly rural. Proudly rustic. Bare foot-paws and bare, furry chest in the summer, running round. Playing basketball. Wandering the fields (his namesakes). Catching wooly worms and tracking songbirds through the brush. Wrestling snapping turtles gave him a rush.
She was a town bat. More rural than not (being that this town was a rural town). So, she could relate to his heritage. Could find it charming. Bats were rare. Not many of them lived in the Midwest. Much less Indiana. And much less here. But she did. She was enigmatic. Where Field was as emotional as a creature could be ... she was a bit more cool. Calm. Collected. Maybe it was because of her mental abilities. Her telepathic prowess. But she seemed to have a more stable mind that Field did. And yet ... she admired his capacity for life. For creation. For art. For expression. The things that came from his words, from his art ... she liked those things. Appreciated them. And he appreciated her appreciation.
How they actually met ... was another story ...
Regardless, they had dated, courted ... and had mated. Against the law of the guard trolleys. And against the town rules.
The furs who gave orders to the trolleys (in General Sheridan's absence) were rumored to be predators. Felines. Wolves. Foxes. Predators ruled society. The more urban areas were always dominated by predators. Urban jungles, as they were. While the rural areas of the world were habited by prey ... but, invariably, as the population grew, the predator and prey populations ... overlapped. As they had done before. Decades back. When the predators had legally hunted prey ... for sport. For blood-lust.
Bats had nearly gone extinct. The mice, huge in numbers, were psychologically scarred ... for generations. As they'd been taken down ... one-by-one.
It was only when the predators realized that, by killing the prey ... they were killing themselves (as prey did most of the menial work in society; the service jobs ... as well as the basic jobs ... all the farming) ... the predators needed the sweat and toil of the prey species ... to maintain their standard of living.
So, laws had gone into effect ...
But, often, the laws were ignored. And there was no way to stop it.
All of which ... was connected, in some ways, with the Sheridan Conspiracy. How could this conspiracy be going on? This blatant abuse of the town ... with the outside world not knowing? How could the towns of Sheridan get away with such plans ... how did no one find out?
The guard trolleys were technologically sophisticated. They could deflect scans. Put up force-fields. The alpha trolley of the pack ... had the unique ability to implant false memories in the mind. Somehow. In some way ...
Regardless, this conspiracy went on and on and ...
... no one knew. Only the furs within the town ... knew. And when they tried to tell ... no one believed them. And, by chance, if someone did believe ... they were "dealt with" by the trolleys.
The whole affair was diabolical. The whole affair was unreal.
Field, at times, did not know ... what to feel.
It was too much. It was all too much.
The mouse blinked. Shaking all these thoughts ... away. Looking at the flame that flapped. The lit candle in the glass holder on the coffee table. The scent of vanilla. And the scent of her. Her fur ...
... as she nuzzled and cuddled up to him.
Their food on the coffee table. On plates and in bowls. Growing cold.
The clock reading just after midnight ... and the trolleys ringing and dinging in the distance. They were like coyotes at night. And they slept during the day. No one knew where they went during the day, but ... during the day, they allowed the furs of the town to work, go about their business, or go to school ... whatever it is they did ... but, come late-afternoon, they emerged ... to keep their domain. And even when the trolleys weren't present, the influence of the corrupt school board (or "The Board") could be felt ...
Strange visitors often came to the town. Dressed in black from whiskers to tail ... wearing gloves on their paws. Coming to town to buy the venom from Jay T's Venezuelan Blues (his tropical spiders). What they used the venom for ... for nerve agents ... for weapons for the Sheridan Conspiracy's arsenal ... it was terrifying to think. But no one had the power to stop the transactions.
It was as if, in this town, nothing could be controlled ... in Sheridan town, you did not control things. Things controlled YOU.
And the same was true of love. Of need. Of want.
Adelaide couldn't control ... the kiss that came. Haphazardly to the mouse's lips.
And Field couldn't control the blink-blink ... and the cute confusion ...
... and she couldn't help but giggle (and wrap her warm wings around him) ...
"When this is over," whispered the mouse, forehead leaning against hers again. Unaware of the candle on the coffee table. Unaware of the moonlight through the window. Unaware of all the details and sounds and sighs of this place, this room ... only aware of her. On narrow focus. Focus: bat. Focus: Adelaide. "When this is over ... what will we do? Where will we go? Alaska? Kokomo?"
She giggled airily ... " ... we don't have to go anywhere. Do we? Do you really wanna ... fly away?"
He shook his head slowly. Afraid of planes. Afraid of boats. Only comfortable, truly comfortable ... in open land. Open sky. The farmland where ... one was stripped of excess. Or pretension. Could be close to the earth. Could be a part of creation. Could find humble humility. Could ...
"A honeymoon ... though ... would be nice."
"Don't have any money," he whispered into her ear. "I work at Grace Brothers, remember ... no money ... " He worked in a restaurant. No college degree.
She worked in the town library.
"So, we'll drive ... take the ALCAN ... doesn't matter, Field. Doesn't matter," she breathed. "Doesn't matter, Field." Her voice was hushed. Her mind ... reached to his. And her fangs grazed his neck.
The mouse huffed ... and raised his muzzle to the ceiling. Lips parted ... to pant a bit.
Her fangs grazed, grazed ... through the honey-tan fur. And her tongue took a lick at his neck. Wetting the spot. Where she would bite.
Adelaide was not a vampire. Vampires did not exist. But bats could bite ... and, doing so, create a link. A bond. A spiritual union. The electrical, mental current ... that burned in the milk that dripped from her fangs ... would enter his blood ... and circle through him. Circle back to her.
The mouse breathed, breathed, breathed ...
... bit! She bit ... sinking her fangs into his neck.
The mouse's eyes watered shut. He felt no pain. Felt that he should, but ... as usual, didn't. It was masked. It was subverted ... by a pleasure. By a persistence of vision. Of shared vision. Their thoughts. Their minds were merging. Their minds were one.
She spoke to him ... without words. In his mind.
Did you lose a monkey? ... she asked. Mentally asked.
What ... ? ... he replied.
The one that saddled your back? Did you lose a monkey? He gave you back-aches. He made you slouch. But he didn't mean it ...
Field giggled ... at the complete silliness of her thought-words. At the apparent randomness. At the frenetic poetry.
Baby ... baby ... come on ... what's wrong?
It's a radiation vibe ... I just wanna get some sun. I want the spring, the summer ... to come.
Warmth. You want warmth.
Not heat ...
I won't burn you. I won't burn you ...
It's so cold outside. But ... I want it to be colder. I want my breath to freeze when I release it. I want our moments to freeze. I want it to be crystalline. I want the clouds to hang dark and low ... so I can lasso them. So I can reel them in ... so, I can float away on them. Up and up ... and see my home. And parachute off ... and land in a field in daylight. And when I land, it'll be summer again ... and it'll be hot.
That makes no sense ...
A giggle.
Your mind is a beautiful sea ... she said (from within his head) ...
Then why does it make me feel something ... that feels a lot like fear? Why am I waiting for that voice to tell me, "Coast is clear?"
Because your capacity is limitless. And you fear that which has no limits ...
I don't fear God. God has no limits. I don't fear Him.
No, but you fear yourself ... you doubt yourself ...
Adelaide ...
Field, just let it go ... let go ...
Before he could respond, she flooded him with a barrage of images. Sensations. Things ... memories of her own, and memories gleaned from others ... she gave him.
He saw trains. He saw furs betting on trains. On a half-acre in Michigan. Someone was waving. Someone was counting. Someone was leaving ... chasing those ponies, those trains ... down those tracks. Leaving, maybe, to never come back.
He saw a fur leaving it all to go to Pittsburgh. To join a pro team. Only to injure his knee ... but not caring, cause he still made the femme furs swoon, and wasn't that the way life was supposed to be?
He saw a couple dancing the Tennessee Waltz ... it would be their last dance before the end ...
He felt rainy nights in Kempton ... the town dead. The only living things: the rabbit-eared antennae ... wooing cable television signals from the sky. The town crying. The feeling of being hardened ... by things gone dull. The possibility of rural impossibility. Heavy rain a-falling. Rainy night in Indiana. And the feeling that it must be raining all over the world. Hadn't God promised not to flood them like this? Or were they blind to the Lifeboat tethered to their own souls?
He heard whispers ... delicate rivers of suggestion ... the ideas, the muse, the divine inspiration that didn't wait for the mouse's own call ...
Saw stones being thrown over iron bridges ... by weary wanderers. In the autumn. Saw furs lamenting on the iron bridges. Lamenting at their failure in staging an autumn defense. Lamenting at their lack of control over time. Over life. They were trying too hard.
Artistic fury. Poetic fervor. Furred, frenetic fever.
He heard calls of distress ... "lines are down ... lines are down ... fire in Cincinnati" ...
He saw the kick go wide right ...
He heard the cars roaring 33-strong ... at 200 miles per hour ...
He saw himself on the banks of the Wabash, far away ... someday. Someday in the future.
And he felt her paws running up and down his sides. Felt himself arching, aching in response. Felt himself tensing, sighing ... stopping. Settling. Felt her paws stray away ...
Felt their first kiss on the porch ... near the black-eyed Susan cluster ... near the half-empty hummingbird feeder. The stickiness of the sugar water. And the bees that it drew. His foot-paws had been bare and on the concrete. His jean shorts were tattered and worn. Dusty. He had bits of alfalfa in his fur ... and the electric fence, sagging to the grass, went, "spark, spark, spark" ...
... and he's been surprised at the eagerness he saw in her. As she'd pressed him to the vinyl siding of the one-hundred year-old farmhouse. As she'd muffled his surprised squeaks with her lips, her tongue ... both of them sweating, burning under a 92-degree late-afternoon sun ... July, July ... my love and I ... the mouse's mind already making a poem of this ... as it was happening, making a poem of this. That he would give her the following night. That she would read by the glow of the fireflies and the porch-light. To the serenade of the crickets and the frogs. And the chorus of night-things.
And the flowers and the Stitches he'd given her ...
And the chocolate cookies (with the white chips) that they'd baked on Sunday evening ...
He felt heightened ... every sensation, every experience of his own. Of hers. Intertwining, heightening ...
... until she, panting, pulled her fangs out of his neck. Leaving no mark. Leaving no blood. How that was so ... he didn't know. But she withdrew, and she ... she of the squinted, yearning eyes. And she of the delicate sighs. She panted onto his cheek. And kissed him there.
The mouse felt a fire tearing through the air. As if the atoms in the room had quickened their pace. As if a loving heat was enveloping this space. And, head tilted, he pushed her back against the cushions of the couch ... and kissed her muzzle. Wet, warm ... wistful. Wanting.
And she broke it to breathe.
And he squeaked as she stretched her wings ... and looked at him. Thinking such things ...
The mental link had been severed when she'd withdrawn those teeth.
But perhaps a physical link would be more complete.
"I don't care," she whispered, "if I had to walk one hundred miles of steel over wood ... I would never let you go."
Nose nestled into her neck, breathing of her fur, the mouse flushed ... blushed. Replied, "What about all the ... things you've lost ... because of this? What about the risks?"
"I don't count them ... I don't care," she vowed. "I love you ... "
His eyes watered. And he hugged her tight. Momentarily unaware of the existence of guard trolleys. Forgetting he was in Sheridan, Indiana. Forgetting fear. Forgetting ... the struggles of yesteryear. Only thinking that, "I love you, too."
Afterwards, hours later, still in twilight ... while they slept beneath the blanket on the couch, and while the temperature outside stayed below freezing ... while they slept, the mouse had another dream.
The trolleys were sick. Were sputtering. Were breaking down.
Why? Why?
What was the secret? What had happened ...
Something ... the key to defeating the guard trolleys ...
... flashed through Field's dream, scurrying away ... as to whether Field would remember it when he woke ... there was no one to say.
But there WAS a way ...
But rebellion would wait for morning. Now was for sweet, soft snoring ...