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And On That Note
A Spontoon Island story
© 2023 by Walter Reimer
(Various characters are copyright their respective owners.)
Thumbnail art by
RockBaker
Twenty-four.
Friday, September 1, 1939:
K’nutt Karoksson had a good day the previous day.
He had spent the morning working with his new friends from the Irish East Indies as they got their plane ready for the Schneider Cup race. He was looking forward to it, and after his afternoon of work at Luchow’s he had sought out one of his aunts, a Wise One, to ask her blessing on the plane and its pilot, Timmeen.
The Wise One had listened tolerantly to him and assured him that she would speak to the Gods about the matter.
K’nutt had then gone home to find out that his twin brother and his older sister had gotten in some sort of trouble. The first indication of this was the pervasive smell of ripe durian that caused a few of his neighbors to hold their noses and glare pointedly at the Brush family’s longhouse.
Fortunately, and much to his pleasure, he had discovered that he, personally, wasn’t in trouble. He not only had a good dinner, but his brother’s share of dessert, too.
Knowing that he had a busy day ahead of him, the young tod-fox had gone to bed early and slept soundly despite the occasional complaints from B’onss.
“CHIT-chit-rrrrr!”
He woke up to look up at a pair of red currant-jelly eyes set in a white-furred face. The small feral Spontoon Albino Kaibab Squirrel frisked its tail, patted K’nutt on the nose with one forepaw, and chittered again. A few more SAKS were sitting on his bed.
“H-H-Hello,” K’nutt said, the squirrels giving way as he sat up in bed and rubbed his eyes.
“ACK! GET ‘EM OFFA ME!” B’onss yelped as a sextet of SAKS woke him up by racing back and forth over him and under his blanket. “Get out of it, ya little white . . . “ His voice trailed off as the squirrels leaped out the bedroom window, and B’onss glowered at K’nutt.
K’nutt knew that it was going to be a good day.
***
The RIM Belleaire was finishing loading that morning so it could be out of the lagoon before the race started, along with several other freighters. The big cruise liners were being repositioned in the lagoon to give their passengers a good view of the upcoming air races.
Cicely Lopp finished checking in and walked back to the low barrier that separated passengers from well-wishers. “Thank you all so much for seeing me off,” the rabbit doe said.
Rosie Stagg reached over the barrier and pulled the rabbit into a close embrace. “Promise me something, Cisseleh,” the cheetah said. “Please keep in touch, okeh?”
“Sure,” and Lopp bit her lower lip. “I’m a little worried that I might – “
Rosie shushed her and whispered in her ear, “We’ll deal with that if it happens.” Lopp smiled at her and broke the embrace before hugging Inspector Stagg.
“Thank you, Franklin.”
“You’re very welcome, Cicely. Please, let us know how you’re doing, and how your mother’s doing. I’ll pray for her,” the whitetail buck said. Reggie and Willow Buckhorn were standing behind the Staggs, and they waved as the rabbit doe waved at them, turned, and headed for the gangway.
They stood and waited until they saw her at the rail, and waved as she waved down at them. The gangway was being removed and lines were being readied to cast off as the ship’s horn sounded, and the two couples waved one last time before turning away to head to the water taxis to take Franklin and Rosie back to Meeting Island. Reggie and Willow were tagging along to have breakfast at Luchow’s.
Part of their route to the taxi rank took them through a section of the market, already doing a bustling business this early in the morning. Rosie held Franklin’s free paw as he walked along, the cheetah taking care not to hurry the buck. Her ears swiveled and she pointed. “Franneleh, there’s Ranua,” and she pointed at a familiar wirehair terrier in a simple button-down shirt and shorts who was haggling with a vendor.
He looked up, saw her waving, and he waved back.
“So it is,” Franklin said, his ears flicking slightly. Part of him was absolutely certain that the terrier, a Spontoonie member of Rain Island’s intelligence Service, was not in the market by coincidence. He took his paw from Rosie’s grasp. “If you don’t mind, I’ll have a word with him.”
“Of course,” his wife said, and she stayed with her stepdaughter and son-in-law as the whitetail buck hobbled over to the terrier.
Ranua had just finished concluding a deal, and several fish wrapped in brown butcher’s paper were in a small net bag when he saw Stagg approach. “Hello, Inspector!”
“Good morning, Ranua. Up early, I see.”
“Miri wanted me to get some shopping done before the tourists descend,” the terrier chuckled. He lowered his voice. “And I wanted an opportunity to talk to you.”
“I’ve already refused Sapohatan.”
Ranua kept smiling. There was no way of telling if someone was looking through binoculars. “I heard. But if you do change your mind, we could always use an analyst, Inspector.” He cocked an eye at the buck. “Especially one with wartime experience.”
Rosie watched as the terrier parted company with her husband, and she smiled as Franklin walked back to her. “He okeh?”
“His wife had him out early to go shopping,” her husband said. He had a thoughtful expression on his face.
“One of the advantages of living over a restaurant,” Rosie said with a grin.
Reggie had gotten a copy of the Spontoon Mirror from a newsstand near the taxi rank, and he helped everyone into the water taxi before he got in with them. He opened the paper and grimaced at the headline. “Oh dear,” he said.
“What is it, Reggie?” Willow asked, craning her neck to look.
Her husband pointed. “The Tsarists and the Bolshies are yelling at each other, as per, and the Czechs have bombed Dresden.”
“Oh my.”
Reggie nodded. “Naturally, the Germans are blaming the French for giving the Czechs bombers in the first place, and the French – well, you know.” He sighed, looking thoughtful.
“What are you thinking, Reggie?” Franklin asked.
“I’m thinking that you don’t have to be one of those weather chappies to know which way the wind’s blowing,” his son-in-law said as Willow took the paper from him and started reading.
***
Race Day.
Anchored outside the Spontoon Atoll’s lagoon sat five cruisers to represent a military presence at the Schneider Cup. With several of the entrants backed by various nations, designs that were not far removed from experimental fighter aircraft and flown by military test pilots, it was a traditional practice to allow those nations to show the flag a little. The warships were in a pentagonal formation, their main batteries primed and ready to go as the starting gun for the race.
There were international tensions to be considered, and the captains of the cruisers HMAS Queensland, IJN Kitsurubami, HNMS Hoorn, USS Springdale, and RINSS Bear were watching each other very closely. More than one looked askance at the Japanese ship; its main battery consisted of eight fifteen-inch battleship-caliber guns, nearly twice the striking power of the other ships’ eight-inch guns.
But none of the navies represented were presently at war with each other, so while wary, the officers and crew were determined to enjoy themselves. More than a few had criticized Rain Island for having femmes serving aboard their heavy cruiser, but no one dared say it to the face of the wolfess commanding the vessel.
Particularly since the cutlass she insisted on wearing with her uniform jumpsuit had signs that it had been used repeatedly.
The week leading up to the race had been full of diverse entertainments. There had been a boxing tournament between the Japanese Army and Navy, which the Army had won and were still bragging about it. A group of airship enthusiasts had talked the Rain Island Naval Syndicate into donating two elderly Nanaimo-class airships, and the two engaged in a stately midair ballet widely advertised as a ‘dogfight,’ but with the crews hurling balloons filled with paint rather than using firearms. As a matter of historical record, the Red team defeated the Blue team.
Passengers aboard the ocean liners in the central lagoon were crowding the rails as the main event of Speed Week began. All the grandstands were full, and a cheer arose as the race entrants were towed into their positions.
The entrants were a large and motley group. The Imperial Japanese Navy and Army were both represented, their traditional rivalry ensuring that their planes were separated by America’s entry, a prototype designed by Boing. It went without saying that the Racing Association had searched both Japanese planes for weapons in case the two pilots decided that an aerial duel would be a good idea.
For the first time in several years, Britain and Germany were not represented, throwing the field open for a French Potez and an Italian Breda, as well as entries from Rain Island, Australia, the Sultanate of Sinatra, the Irish East Indies, the Netherlands, and both Vostok Island and the Soviet Union. The latter two, their rivalry almost as bad as that between the two Japanese entries, had the Italian plane sitting between them.
Aware of all of this, the crowd were anticipating an entertaining race.
“K’nutt, me lad!” Seamus said as the tod-fox came walking up to the dock near the race’s starting point. “Here Oi was afther havin’ a chat with this foine Dutchman here!” The wolfhound nodded toward a compactly-built equine in a flying suit. His leather flying helmet and goggles were gripped in one paw. “This ‘ere’s th’ Dutch East Indies pilot, Jan van Aashuul.”
The donkey nodded at the Spontoonie tod-fox. “From Batavia.” He glanced upward, giving the taller Seamus a sidelong look. A pair of binturongs, part of the donkey’s flight crew, were muttering to each other in Bahasa Indonesia while they stood a few yards away from their pilot.
“An’ is it so,” Seamus asked, “that ye’re afther flyin’ a Fokker?” He grinned at K’nutt. “They’re all a bunch o’ Fokkers over there, I’m tellin’ ye.”
Van Aashuul’s dour expression deepened. “We could not get a plane from the Fokker Works in Holland.”
“Wh-Wh-What are y-y-y-you flying?” K’nutt asked.
The donkey replied, “We had to get a plane from a Swedish concern.”
Seamus gave a short laugh. “An' whoi won't ye be afther seein' a wroitup in the paypers about it? Sure an' thim lads don't loike publishin' Saab stories." He laughed longer then, his braces creaking as he doubled partly over. Van Aashuul gave him a harsh glare and marched off, his two crewfurs in tow.
Seamus and K’nutt started walking in the opposite direction, headed to where Paddy and Timmeen were waiting with the Fingal’s Folly. “Ah, ‘tis hard luck, it is, bein’ named van Aashuul, afther some town in Holland,” the wolfhound said. “Ye'd be thinkin’ th’ town’ld do something about it, after all these centuries. Still an’ all, could be worse."
“H-H-H-How?"
The wolfhound grinned. "Th’ town next over is Koont, so Oi’m told."
<NEXT>
<PREVIOUS>
<FIRST>
A Spontoon Island story
© 2023 by Walter Reimer
(Various characters are copyright their respective owners.)
Thumbnail art by
RockBakerTwenty-four.
Friday, September 1, 1939:
K’nutt Karoksson had a good day the previous day.
He had spent the morning working with his new friends from the Irish East Indies as they got their plane ready for the Schneider Cup race. He was looking forward to it, and after his afternoon of work at Luchow’s he had sought out one of his aunts, a Wise One, to ask her blessing on the plane and its pilot, Timmeen.
The Wise One had listened tolerantly to him and assured him that she would speak to the Gods about the matter.
K’nutt had then gone home to find out that his twin brother and his older sister had gotten in some sort of trouble. The first indication of this was the pervasive smell of ripe durian that caused a few of his neighbors to hold their noses and glare pointedly at the Brush family’s longhouse.
Fortunately, and much to his pleasure, he had discovered that he, personally, wasn’t in trouble. He not only had a good dinner, but his brother’s share of dessert, too.
Knowing that he had a busy day ahead of him, the young tod-fox had gone to bed early and slept soundly despite the occasional complaints from B’onss.
“CHIT-chit-rrrrr!”
He woke up to look up at a pair of red currant-jelly eyes set in a white-furred face. The small feral Spontoon Albino Kaibab Squirrel frisked its tail, patted K’nutt on the nose with one forepaw, and chittered again. A few more SAKS were sitting on his bed.
“H-H-Hello,” K’nutt said, the squirrels giving way as he sat up in bed and rubbed his eyes.
“ACK! GET ‘EM OFFA ME!” B’onss yelped as a sextet of SAKS woke him up by racing back and forth over him and under his blanket. “Get out of it, ya little white . . . “ His voice trailed off as the squirrels leaped out the bedroom window, and B’onss glowered at K’nutt.
K’nutt knew that it was going to be a good day.
***
The RIM Belleaire was finishing loading that morning so it could be out of the lagoon before the race started, along with several other freighters. The big cruise liners were being repositioned in the lagoon to give their passengers a good view of the upcoming air races.
Cicely Lopp finished checking in and walked back to the low barrier that separated passengers from well-wishers. “Thank you all so much for seeing me off,” the rabbit doe said.
Rosie Stagg reached over the barrier and pulled the rabbit into a close embrace. “Promise me something, Cisseleh,” the cheetah said. “Please keep in touch, okeh?”
“Sure,” and Lopp bit her lower lip. “I’m a little worried that I might – “
Rosie shushed her and whispered in her ear, “We’ll deal with that if it happens.” Lopp smiled at her and broke the embrace before hugging Inspector Stagg.
“Thank you, Franklin.”
“You’re very welcome, Cicely. Please, let us know how you’re doing, and how your mother’s doing. I’ll pray for her,” the whitetail buck said. Reggie and Willow Buckhorn were standing behind the Staggs, and they waved as the rabbit doe waved at them, turned, and headed for the gangway.
They stood and waited until they saw her at the rail, and waved as she waved down at them. The gangway was being removed and lines were being readied to cast off as the ship’s horn sounded, and the two couples waved one last time before turning away to head to the water taxis to take Franklin and Rosie back to Meeting Island. Reggie and Willow were tagging along to have breakfast at Luchow’s.
Part of their route to the taxi rank took them through a section of the market, already doing a bustling business this early in the morning. Rosie held Franklin’s free paw as he walked along, the cheetah taking care not to hurry the buck. Her ears swiveled and she pointed. “Franneleh, there’s Ranua,” and she pointed at a familiar wirehair terrier in a simple button-down shirt and shorts who was haggling with a vendor.
He looked up, saw her waving, and he waved back.
“So it is,” Franklin said, his ears flicking slightly. Part of him was absolutely certain that the terrier, a Spontoonie member of Rain Island’s intelligence Service, was not in the market by coincidence. He took his paw from Rosie’s grasp. “If you don’t mind, I’ll have a word with him.”
“Of course,” his wife said, and she stayed with her stepdaughter and son-in-law as the whitetail buck hobbled over to the terrier.
Ranua had just finished concluding a deal, and several fish wrapped in brown butcher’s paper were in a small net bag when he saw Stagg approach. “Hello, Inspector!”
“Good morning, Ranua. Up early, I see.”
“Miri wanted me to get some shopping done before the tourists descend,” the terrier chuckled. He lowered his voice. “And I wanted an opportunity to talk to you.”
“I’ve already refused Sapohatan.”
Ranua kept smiling. There was no way of telling if someone was looking through binoculars. “I heard. But if you do change your mind, we could always use an analyst, Inspector.” He cocked an eye at the buck. “Especially one with wartime experience.”
Rosie watched as the terrier parted company with her husband, and she smiled as Franklin walked back to her. “He okeh?”
“His wife had him out early to go shopping,” her husband said. He had a thoughtful expression on his face.
“One of the advantages of living over a restaurant,” Rosie said with a grin.
Reggie had gotten a copy of the Spontoon Mirror from a newsstand near the taxi rank, and he helped everyone into the water taxi before he got in with them. He opened the paper and grimaced at the headline. “Oh dear,” he said.
“What is it, Reggie?” Willow asked, craning her neck to look.
Her husband pointed. “The Tsarists and the Bolshies are yelling at each other, as per, and the Czechs have bombed Dresden.”
“Oh my.”
Reggie nodded. “Naturally, the Germans are blaming the French for giving the Czechs bombers in the first place, and the French – well, you know.” He sighed, looking thoughtful.
“What are you thinking, Reggie?” Franklin asked.
“I’m thinking that you don’t have to be one of those weather chappies to know which way the wind’s blowing,” his son-in-law said as Willow took the paper from him and started reading.
***
Race Day.
Anchored outside the Spontoon Atoll’s lagoon sat five cruisers to represent a military presence at the Schneider Cup. With several of the entrants backed by various nations, designs that were not far removed from experimental fighter aircraft and flown by military test pilots, it was a traditional practice to allow those nations to show the flag a little. The warships were in a pentagonal formation, their main batteries primed and ready to go as the starting gun for the race.
There were international tensions to be considered, and the captains of the cruisers HMAS Queensland, IJN Kitsurubami, HNMS Hoorn, USS Springdale, and RINSS Bear were watching each other very closely. More than one looked askance at the Japanese ship; its main battery consisted of eight fifteen-inch battleship-caliber guns, nearly twice the striking power of the other ships’ eight-inch guns.
But none of the navies represented were presently at war with each other, so while wary, the officers and crew were determined to enjoy themselves. More than a few had criticized Rain Island for having femmes serving aboard their heavy cruiser, but no one dared say it to the face of the wolfess commanding the vessel.
Particularly since the cutlass she insisted on wearing with her uniform jumpsuit had signs that it had been used repeatedly.
The week leading up to the race had been full of diverse entertainments. There had been a boxing tournament between the Japanese Army and Navy, which the Army had won and were still bragging about it. A group of airship enthusiasts had talked the Rain Island Naval Syndicate into donating two elderly Nanaimo-class airships, and the two engaged in a stately midair ballet widely advertised as a ‘dogfight,’ but with the crews hurling balloons filled with paint rather than using firearms. As a matter of historical record, the Red team defeated the Blue team.
Passengers aboard the ocean liners in the central lagoon were crowding the rails as the main event of Speed Week began. All the grandstands were full, and a cheer arose as the race entrants were towed into their positions.
The entrants were a large and motley group. The Imperial Japanese Navy and Army were both represented, their traditional rivalry ensuring that their planes were separated by America’s entry, a prototype designed by Boing. It went without saying that the Racing Association had searched both Japanese planes for weapons in case the two pilots decided that an aerial duel would be a good idea.
For the first time in several years, Britain and Germany were not represented, throwing the field open for a French Potez and an Italian Breda, as well as entries from Rain Island, Australia, the Sultanate of Sinatra, the Irish East Indies, the Netherlands, and both Vostok Island and the Soviet Union. The latter two, their rivalry almost as bad as that between the two Japanese entries, had the Italian plane sitting between them.
Aware of all of this, the crowd were anticipating an entertaining race.
“K’nutt, me lad!” Seamus said as the tod-fox came walking up to the dock near the race’s starting point. “Here Oi was afther havin’ a chat with this foine Dutchman here!” The wolfhound nodded toward a compactly-built equine in a flying suit. His leather flying helmet and goggles were gripped in one paw. “This ‘ere’s th’ Dutch East Indies pilot, Jan van Aashuul.”
The donkey nodded at the Spontoonie tod-fox. “From Batavia.” He glanced upward, giving the taller Seamus a sidelong look. A pair of binturongs, part of the donkey’s flight crew, were muttering to each other in Bahasa Indonesia while they stood a few yards away from their pilot.
“An’ is it so,” Seamus asked, “that ye’re afther flyin’ a Fokker?” He grinned at K’nutt. “They’re all a bunch o’ Fokkers over there, I’m tellin’ ye.”
Van Aashuul’s dour expression deepened. “We could not get a plane from the Fokker Works in Holland.”
“Wh-Wh-What are y-y-y-you flying?” K’nutt asked.
The donkey replied, “We had to get a plane from a Swedish concern.”
Seamus gave a short laugh. “An' whoi won't ye be afther seein' a wroitup in the paypers about it? Sure an' thim lads don't loike publishin' Saab stories." He laughed longer then, his braces creaking as he doubled partly over. Van Aashuul gave him a harsh glare and marched off, his two crewfurs in tow.
Seamus and K’nutt started walking in the opposite direction, headed to where Paddy and Timmeen were waiting with the Fingal’s Folly. “Ah, ‘tis hard luck, it is, bein’ named van Aashuul, afther some town in Holland,” the wolfhound said. “Ye'd be thinkin’ th’ town’ld do something about it, after all these centuries. Still an’ all, could be worse."
“H-H-H-How?"
The wolfhound grinned. "Th’ town next over is Koont, so Oi’m told."
<NEXT>
<PREVIOUS>
<FIRST>
Category Story / General Furry Art
Species Unspecified / Any
Size 120 x 87px
File Size 66.2 kB
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