The Night was no ordinary night in the Field, that’s for sure. In fact, anyone can ask Old Peppercorn about it. Yessir, it’s a time that the little people like myself still talk about, for it is a tale that Peppercorn tells well, although not so often; the new generations of the Community no longer believe in magic.
Let’s see if Old Peppercorn’s tale is as entertaining as it once was…
It was long ago, during a summer where the grass was long and the wind was light. Peppercorn was barely a young mouse, yessir he could jump and flip ‘round any bend. He was as agile as any field mouse of old, not like the rapscallion lazies of today.
Peppercorn was out fixing himself some seeds of wheat at sunset when he looked up. Now I find it myself that it was fate for him to have looked into the distance, for no sound or smell should have lured him to do so. But alas, there she was; Fiddle the Field Cat was there, and in a crouching position. Fortunately enough, he had seen her before it was too late. Without delay, Peppercorn spat his full cheek of seeds and abandoned the bounty and Fiddle began the chase. Peppercorn darted every which way, as did Fiddle follow him with her powerful legs. The sun began to dip and Peppercorn was soon lost in the tangled weeds of the Field. Once the darkness hit, he was still, so very still, as it was now dark, and this black cat could easily find him with her dangerous blue eyes. Damn that Fiddle, she was too much of a predator for Peppercorn to brave! But then, far from his vigil, he saw Fiddle, perched in the tall summer grass, sitting and staring towards the black sky.
Peppercorn thought to himself ‘The bloody feline has gone mad! Or is there a bird in that starworthy blanket?’ And so, he had to see it for himself. Peppercorn maneuvered his healthy little form like a dancing shrew across the Field until he was close enough to see Fiddle’s chest rise and fall with each moment of breathing.
Fiddle was still intent on the sky, and something gold reflected in her eyes. The moon? Peppercorn can recall, and argue, that the next moments were the most important in history.
A great fish made of clocks that subtlety rotated was drifting, but through the sky… ‘twas as if it was Chronos was swimming through the time stream. For all that it was worth, time did seem to stop that night.
Peppercorn was in awe of this enchanting figment, as well as Fiddle. The two of them were still enough for the fireflies to shimmer across the grass like the city nightlife. With the Clock Fish growing nearer after every moment, mind you it felt like an eternity between blinks, the clouds on the nighttime sky became a violet-red, like ripe strawberries in the shade, drifting slowly across the sky. Peppercorn saw the great Clock Fish come close to Fiddle, hovering with the slow movements of his glowing fins. Fiddle blinked slowly, her blue eyes gold with the apparition’s illumination. Small, gear-shaped flakes of some alleged form of magic began to fall and… from what Peppercorn could ever gather next would be that Fiddle herself began to glow.
At first, her tail was shimmering at the end with its own clock beginning to form like a ring. Her body became embellished with golden clocks that spun slowly and ticked lightly, congruent to the body of the great Clock Fish. Fiddle’s blue eyes became black with slow and cheery blinks. Tick, tock, tick, tock… the gift that she was blessed with began to diminish and fade back into greasy fur as the flakes ceased to fall, and the Clock Fish glided back into the black depths of the sky. As the fish became one with the stars, Peppercorn realized that Fiddle was blinking back to reality, as was he. Without delay, he scampered into the brush to find the Burrow where he could tell his infamous tale for the first time.
Oh, it was many seasons ago that the Community first heard old Peppercorn’s tale of Fiddle, who has long been dead or at least vanished, the Field, which was now just dust, and the Clock Fish, which has yet to have been spotted again. It was long since the youth of the Community believed the story of the Clock Fish; “Peppercorn is an old coot!” they now say. And maybe they’re right…
… maybe I am just an old coot.
