2This is a river valley. It's white with snow. It's the Yule season in the North. The snowy fields are alive with the bird calls of the red-legged partridge. Out here, there are no pear trees, Yule or otherwise, for it to hide in.
These are farms. Or rather, they are in warmer parts of the year. At present, they're fallow. All across them, the crop residue from last season's harvest still decays...albeit at a very slow rate because of the cold. Fallow or not, though, these lands are a party house for upland hunters of all skill levels.
In the snow, a skeleton lies. It was once a bison's. Better thing it wasn't a cow's... Then again, the bison's history, in these parts, hasn't always been, shall we say, a bull market... (And thatisn'tjust another bison pun...)
This is a shack. It's a lot bigger than it looks from a distance. Smoke comes from its chimneys...and often does. (Whenever there's snow, of course.)
A lone Bradford pear tree stands on the grounds. Much of its lower branches have taken a tumble...but then, such is the main drawback of owning such a pear tree. It's just as well; dogwood trees, it seems, are much more popular at this latitude, and within this river valley's soils...if it isn't the Red River's Northern counterpart.
This shack has a few neighbors. Some if their chimneys smoke, too. There are also sheds, barns, and stables as well...albeit not too many. Not to worry; there's still more land out here than blocks. The herds are seldom far away...as are the crops. But then, where the crops are concerned, it would often help if the freezes and killing frosts knew more slack. But then, it seems the flora at these latitudes enjoy dormancy a lot more than their tropical kin would.
Across a quilt-covered bed, you lie. Not to worry; these lies of yours don't require you to trick anyone. It should probably be noted, though, that even now, your mother thinks that you're just spending the holidays with your friends...which, in fact, is merely a half-truth. The other half, that you're deliberately not telling her...and hence, are indirectly lying about...is that you're going to spend part of that time with a firearm...and not to mention with a lot of space between yourself and an ER...and not to mention with a lot of space between yourself and a hearth.
In a corner, a portable heater runs. Its orange light glows. It oscillates, too, as it runs... At some latitudes, it's just not enough, keeping the grates stoked... And hence, this heater runs and oscillates, and warms whatever's not. The dogs, after all, can't always be around to do this themselves...for some reason...
In the sitting room, a tall pre-lit Yule tree stands. Its lights are white. Its most impressive feature, though, is within its top. Many Yule trees merely have an ornamental star at their tops. This one, by contrast, has a stuffed partridge wedged within one side of its top. ("Stuffed" as in taxidermy, of course.) The tree would also have no other decorations other than its ornaments...but does, in fact, also have ornamental pears hanging from certain spots on it...as well as small clusters of the same in slightly fewer spots... This shack family, it seems, really knows how to add new meaning to the phrase "partridge in a pear tree."
From a rack on a wall, a Henry rifle hangs. It's a long-ranger. You're half-thankful that at least it's not an American Eagle...or a North Dakotan Eagle, even...or a North Dakotan Western Meadowlark, even... (THAT Henry rifle, B.T.W., is purely speculative...if Henry ever even would've thought that North Dakota is worth having a lever-action rifle named after it...)
Within a window, a dreamcatcher hangs. Its decor salutes the Dakota nation. Woodpecker feathers hang from beaded threads from it. The beads come in whites, purples, light blues, dark blues, and celadons. It's very inspirational. But then, that's kind of its job.
These shacks are a caniary...of sorts. (A caniary is like a menagerie...with an all-dog roster.) Within it, there's a Weimaraner; his Kaiser's crown is seldom a relic. There's a brace of cocker spaniels. There's an AWS (i.e. an American water spaniel); he's often happier when there are fewer chunks of ice in the river...although that's not to say he wouldn't swim in the river if it was that cold...as it is now, alas. There's a whippet. There's a Rhodesian ridgeback. There's an Irish wolfhound. And, there're a few bloodhounds. They always feel like fetching more than a few birds. At least they're always a pack, though; sometimestoomuch of one. At least they do a fair job of keeping the wolves in Manitoba.
The hearth is brick...but very sturdy. The Irish wolfhounds have been known to take naps atop it...as have the whippets and the bloodhounds. Funny; it seems like the whippets would prefer the awfully-tight spaces between the mattresses and the boxes...as warm as the grates though they tend to not be... Then again, that tends to depend on how well-dressed the bed is, as well as how big its patron user is...
Ornamental stockings hang from the mantlepiece. They've sleigh bells sewn to them. Into one of their openings, a very relevant name has been embroidered, considering that this shack doubles as a partridge hunting lodge: JOHNNY. Another stocking has a name on its opening that's as relevant: IOANN. Another stocking, yet, has a name on its opening that's just as relevant: IVAN. There's another stocking with the name JOHANN on it... You'd assume these men were brothers...if they didn't sound like they were from different countries.
On the kitchen countertops, various bottles of liquor sit. There's bourbon from Louisville. There's vodka from Minsk. There's rum from Havana. There's Tennesse whiskey from North Carolina. There's North Irish whiskey from Belfast. And in the reefer, there are ales from Norway and lagers from Hamburg and Utrecht.
Soon, you sit at the kitchen table. Before you, a freshly-out-of-the-oven cranberry pie casserole sits. Aside from cranberries, there are oats in it...as well as brown sugar, cinnamon, nutmeg, pumpkin, and a few sweet potatoes. It's not a bad Yule breakfast...or a bad breakfast in general. One spoonful at a time, you have a hearty breakfast. You'll need one; partridges, you've been told, are just as good at camouflage tactics as nightjars, bitterns, and grouse. Hence, they'll take a long time to find...and you'll be spending a lot of that time, again, far from a hearth.
In the corner, a radio plays. It broadcasts the weather. Naturally, there are no heat waves to report. There have been reports of dead cattle, though... But then, they don't call it winter because of its big udder...even if late December is supposed to be slightly warmer than early-to-mid February; which, by contrast, and as the solstice would call the shot...is, what many would call "the dead of winter..."
In the utility room, the Weimaraner feasts on his daily bread; dog food from the supermarket. A few jars of gravy have been added to it...as has some seed oil. His heart and his stomach both growl for it...or rather, they roar for it. They'd roar even louder if he was the Rhodesian ridgeback instead. But then, of course, the Kaisers' machine guns were never a laughing matter...and neither were his mustard gas, his U-boats, or his biplane aces.
From tall, collapsible scaffolding, your hunting attire awaits. They're bibs; their color pattern is a hybrid of snow camo and wetlands camo. It's perfect for the hunt ahead. The partridges might see you coming...but at least while wearing that, they can't be so sure.
This is an ottoman. Across it, a burlap sack lies. Within it, a long device is concealed. A...certain possession of its seems to be making a "pants-tent" within it... At least you can trust, though, that it isn't your cousin having one more of his "wet dreams..." Unless, that is to say, your cousin happens to be a Mauser, a Lee, an Enfield, or a Springfield...
With a gloved hand, you reach into the sack and retrieve what it conceals. It's a long-range carbine; small in caliber, but more than capable of premium accuracy. And it's bolt-action; hence the pants-tent. (The action is open.)
Soon, you're in a belt and harness full of ammo. Over it all, you slip on the hunting bib. Soon, the local red-legged partridges won't stand a chance. At this rate, their hours are numbered. Soon, several of their number will be just as much gravy as they are of grave. Hence, not even Jacob Marley could hold a candle to that...assuming, that is, that candles don't make him invisible to still-living humans... (He's a ghost.)
Soon, you endure the cold. Soon, you leave the comfort of the hearths and the smoking chimneys behind you. A balaclava covers most of your head...although it probably won't stay there. Then again, it might...
Your sole companion is the Weimaraner, Thomason. For his previous partners, he's fetched many an upland fowl. And yes, on occasion, he's been known to fetch a turkey during that season...albeit he still seems to think that that's an "Irish wolfhound" job. It's certainly too small to be a "Rhodesian ridgeback" one.
As you travel, you leave your own trace in the snow; boot prints from yourself, and pawprints from yourHundcompanion. But then, better thing that you're not the quarry of this hunt. OTOH, if the partridges get too used to seeing this, they might become warier of your presence...and hence, get spooked.
This is a smoke station. It's a junction...of sorts, despite apparently being in the middle of one of the least-inhabited parts of the river valley. People come here to get their birds smoked. There are outhouses here, too. There are spits, too, for cooking Wurst. And there are shops here, too, for attending to snowmobiles and/or ATVs. For both, there are kerosene and diesel pumps before the main entrance.
Near a high wooden fence, a snowmobile sits parked. Its color pattern is purple-dominant. There's a rack behind its driver seat; perfect for a bag of shot partridges. The rack's got potential rigging to spare, as well. There's also a rack for your carbine. And yes, there's also a compartment that the dog can ride in.
Within the compartment, you set Thomason. Next, you cover the dog's head in a special bag. Not to worry; the bag is very breathable. Via the bag's own collar, you rig it into place. This'll keep the dog from getting addicted to the wind rushing past his face. Unclear, though, as to why he'd want that at all; every wind that'll blow today will be sharpened with the long- and deep-cutting blade of ice.
Soon, the snowmobile's fuel and oil have been inspected...and accommodated for, wherever demanded. Now, you mount your snow horse. Now, you start the engine. Soon, you're outward bound. And...you've also had one of the Wursts that they sell at the spits. Partridge hunter, after all, does not live on cranberry pie casserole alone...lots of oats or none...
This is a fallow farm. It's where all of the partridges get sent to Valhalla...or, otherwise, whichever afterlife they'd prefer. There'd better be mink pelts there...because if there were actual minks there, it'd become a hell instead. Plus, there are no mink pelts to be seen all across this farm field...and hence, a heaven with mink pelts would be a sight...and not to mention averyhearth-worthy texture...better.
The crop residue here is just as frozen as the snow. Some of it sticks right out of the blanket of snow, like it's immune...if it's not. But then, it's clearly dead; it's severed at the base, which, they say, is the number one way to kill a plant. But then, that tactic is often of better use if the plant is woody...and these crops, sturdy though they might've been, were not woody. Then again, they certainly weren't ice-proof, either; hence the reason why the harvest always happensbeforethe first killing frost.
This is a corner of the farm field. Beyond it, there are windbreaks. These windbreaks are infested with willows and cottonwoods...among other plains river staples. Either way, they're all dormant. Only the conifers retain their greenery...strange though it seems that they'd be here when they'd surely have more kin in the highlands...or in the taiga at a much more northern latitude.
Through the windbreaks, creeks run. They empty, of course, into the surrounding river valley. Or rather, they do when the mercury is higher. At present, though, most of them are frozen solid. From time to time, they get warm enough to where some of the frozen falls would drip... Alas, none of that happens as of now. It's a shame, really; if not for the low mercury, it'd be the right time of day for it. Better thing, too, that there's no snowstorm or blizzard to acknowledge.
Within the creeks' ice, perch and sunfish are frozen into place. Below them, bullhead catfishes are too. Needless to say, they'll be on ice for most of the winter. Needless to say, they won't be feeding any local hibernators for at least the next two months...or five...
Uphill and out of the woods, a very long mound runs, and separates a pair of windbreaks. Here, your snowmobile is parked. Your tracks are nowhere to be acknowledged; there's a reason for that. Either way, this snowmobile will have to endure your absence for a few hours.
Within the dog's compartment, Thomason's "head bag" lies; loosened collar and all. Good thing it'll still be there when you get back; you'll need it. Or rather, Thomason will need it. He'll also need some cover-scent on his nose. Not to worry, though; you've already accommodated for the pooch, where that is.
In snowshoes, you make your way through the windbreak. You've little trouble making your way over the leaf-infested, snow-infested floor of the windbreak's very small, very narrow wood. Small and narrow though it is, you've no doubt that deer enjoy taking shelter here, whenever they must... But then, not for naught are windbreaks often called, by some, "shelter belts."
In some spots, you see deer scat. In others, you see deer wallows. In others, you see spots at the bases of very young trees where a buck had sharpened his antlers...before the intensified winter weather started compelling him to grow moss all over them. By the time the spring season came, of course, he'd shed them. Speaking of which, it looks like some of them already have; you actually spot some of their shed antlers in the undergrowth, initially mistaking them for extremely mossy pieces of wood, fallen from the above trees...
Along the bottoms of above branches, tufted titmice crawl. They're often joined, in their branch-bottom-crawling, by local chickadees, nuthatches, local wrens, and local woodpeckers. The woodpecker's wood-hacking can be quite the nuisance... Better thing, then, that you're not here to get a good night's sleep. You couldn't if you wanted to; the nearest hearth, by now, is an entire farm field away...and then some.
Alongside you, the Weimaraner skulks. His paws are in snow-boots; he's a much better sport about wearing them, you think, than some beagles you've heard of...or bloodhounds, even... He sniffs the ground, too...in vain, alas, for again, you've covered his nose in cover-scent...and plan to do so every quarter-hour or so, depending on how often he becomes a liability because his nose starts to work again. He's not here to do the hunting, after all; he's merely here to fetch whatever you shoot.
In many spots within the windbreak, the creeks have carved a deep path for themselves. They don't just cascade; they plow. Hence, there are heights to consider. They're not high enough to kill...but they have been known to result in a broken bone...or too many, depending on how many winters one's bones have helped them survive.
Up ahead, a long wire fence runs perpendicular to this windbreak. In this role, it'd run right over one of the deep-cloven creeks. This fence, though, was more smartly built. In lieu of the fences' wire, scaffolding connects the spots within the cloven creek that the fence would otherwise bridge. Locals call this place the Cass Water Gap.
For you, getting past this water gap won't be hard. If it were a warmer season, though, it'd be harder...for you'd have to get your feet wet. But because the creeks are frozen, and because the scaffolding does, in fact, have spaces within it in which a man-sized human can snowshoe under without having to bend too low... Well, let's just say that it seems your next task has been laid out for you. In sitches like this, you're never more thankful for a frozen creek. You'd just...have to expect to bend lower, if the snow were any deeper than it is. Not to worry, though; the dead of winter is still a month and a half away...as are, presumably, the deepest of its snows. Better thing, then, that it rains more often in New England and Maritime Canada than it does out here.
The fence doesn't give the Weimaraner any trouble at all. In fact, most dogs were born to dodge borders...and fences, too, it seems. He's often up on the hilltops that surround the creek, looking for scents...still, despite being more-than-aware that his nose has been de-scented. But then, he might, very well, be trying to tell you...in his own subtle way...that it's time to re-apply the cover-scent to his nose.
Hence, while keeping Thomason restrained, you do just this to his nose. He hates it...and at times, he sneezes. But then, it's not like you're force-feeding him poison. A lot of his WWII ancestors, though, were probably forced to endure such horrors from their masters...both before and after their masters subjugated certain Jews and LGBTQ-folk to comparable...if not exactly-the-same...horrors. (This all would've happened in the German States, of course; although yes, if Clarice Starling can be raised on the sheep farms of Montana, then so, potentially, could Buffalo Bill or Hannibal Lecter...men who surely would've wanted to hunt wolves with the Nazis before they became Nazis.)
Ever through the windbreak, you continue. You long for partridge. You dream of it being butchered and stewed...stewed with gravy, dumplings, bulbous herbs, and sage, among other culinary vices. And naturally, they don't commit suicide. And even if they did, they might or might not wait until they were in a human alley way to do so. But then, even if they did, it's just as likely that the alley vermin would get to them before the human denizens could.
Nearby, you pass a cow's skeleton. She hasn't been dead for long. Despite this, her bones seem quite bereft of meat... But then, there was surely a scramble, among the local vermin of this windbreak, for winter stores from her flesh... It won't keep long, you know this... Then again, it is very cold; and ice, of course, has had plenty of success, in the past, prolonging the decay of meat...if not eliminating its chances of that altogether... Just ask any of the Mormon pioneers who settled Utah, via the Mormon Trail, back when the Pony Express was still active...
Among the cow's bones, a wake of black vultures are at-roost. Seems strange, that they wouldn't be out and about at this time of day... They are diurnal, after all... Plus, with all of the other dead cows being reported, one would expect them to want to bankroll the bonanza...if one will. You'd suppose they were guarding the carcass... But then, if there wasn't any meat left on it, why would they want to? But then, there's also the cold weather to account for...which they're probably not enjoying any more than you would, if you had to be buck naked in all of this. Plus, they've probably just eaten...which, in fact, might actually be the real reason why they're not airborne or scavenging... Plus, they'll need somewhere to stay the night, later on...and you'd hate to think that those grow in mushroom hollows...even for vultures.
At long last, the farm field is in sight. You can see its corner. A great field of snow-blanketed fallow farmland never looked better. Partridges, after all, love nothing better than to infest the many holes within both the snow and the ever-aging, ever-rotting, ever-self-fertilizing crop residue. Snow, too, can occur as a source of worth...if it's accumulated to a certain extent. And while this blanket of snow might be no record-breaker for a human, one must recall that partridges are much smaller than humans...and not to mention many species of quail and grouse. They're certainly smaller than chickens.
Within the corner of the farm field, your partridge blind has soon been pitched. Now, you wait. As often as you can stay on top of it, you re-apply the cover-scent to your dog's nose. You're already covered in cover-scent; you did this to yourself right after taking your pre-hunt shower. With luck, the smell of your bath soaps won't be strong enough to spook the game. But then, as a guy, of course, it's more common for other humans to accuse you of smellingbad, than of smelling like soap... In that regard, though, you couldn't be in better company; that of a snow-wet dog...short-haired though he is.
Hunts are long, though. Plus, you can't count on the partridges to crop up just because you've arrived. As a matter of fact, if they know you're here, they'd try to avoid you...or otherwise dupe you into thinking that this fallow farm field is just as partridge-infested as a dump truck full of urea. (Urea, in such quantities, suffocates everything that comes near it, for those who wouldn't know. History is also full of instances where even minimal quantities of urea have been known to knock the weakest of people out for several hours...if they didn't swallow it, in which case they'd be goners for sure, faster than one could say "Marvin and Hershey's syrup.")
So, you drive to rest your mind, while waiting your quarry out. As you do, an illusion starts to cast itself...
Aloft, the moon radiates its sheen. Tonight, all over the surface, much will be loony and moony. All might as well be drunk. All might as well have very large breasts. All might as well suckle someone...and/or defend someone with some of the most extreme prejudice that lunacy can project.
These are gravel-covered badlands. In the distance, there are hills. There's something about this gravel; it seems to glow, as the moon shines down upon it. It's...almost as if every rock among this gravel is a silver nugget...
Not too far away, a skeleton lies. It once belonged to a great mastodon. She had a very large udder...which, since, has been eaten away by all of the local scavengers. With luck, her legacy lives on... Although you wouldn't mind if the family reunion waited for another five years...or fifty.
From beneath one of the late mastodon's bones, a titmouse crawls up and down. It's a bird with a crest, and cute little black eyes. It's a Philamaloo creature...and a bit of a goofus. His song, too, sounds like the fermented berry juice got to him.
Downhill, several giant worms slumber. They're stuffed. They snore. They're full of rot and fungus...and that's no metaphor. The mushrooms they eat are very fleshy. They're...also a bit hallucinogenic. This is hard to contemplate; they're all blind. Every now and then, one of them belches in their sleep.
In the sides of hills, near their holes, arctic foxes skulk. Here, they're often white...or rather, they're silver. When the cold lingers, they're light silver; when the heat rises, they're darker silver. Either way, they're masters of concealment. Lunacy, it seems, doesn't give them a Mohawk haircut nearly as often as it does other nearby denizens.
You're armed...with a lunar ranged weapon. It's scoped...and pump-action. You're on a patrol. You're...not sure what you seek out... Even so, that mastodon cow's skeleton is enough to give you a hint that not all of the denizens out here have big udders. Also, even if they do have big udders, that's not to say they wouldn't get way too ornery, while protecting their respective homesteads...
You're soon approached...by a will o' the wisp. She flaps her wings, and hovers before your head. She comes, it seems, to bear instruction... Trying not to stare at her boobs...or how her camel toe tent looks within the undercarriage of her panties...you heed her next words. Also, her hair is in a bob and dyed cerulean-blue.
"Perhaps, tonight," she speaks, "you'd like to try your gauntlet..." She does a 90, and gestures towards the hills in the distance... "At a little canyoneering?"
Far in the distance, the hills glisten with silver light. They too, it seems, are ridden with lunar-reflecting salt...or better yet, silver ore...
Through shaded goggles, you feast your eyes upon the risen challenge far before you. "Oh yes," you speak, a bit mesmerized. "My fascination, it seems, has beenpeaked..."
Before long, you're scaling the cliffs. Your lunar rifle is slung over your shoulder, via a silk-woven sling. The sling is silken, but sturdy. Also, you wear lunar-magnetic gauntlets and kneepads; they keep you anchored to the cliffside, as you climb.
As you climb, the moonlight dances across the cliffs' rocky, silver powder-infested rock formations. They're a bit like painted hills in deserts...only best observed in moonlight. They change colors between whites, lavenders, light blues, silvers, and beiges. They could drive the nearby titmice insane...and often do.
In spots up and down the cliffsides, moonrats dwell. They're like opossums...only smaller, and non-marsupial. They're like hedgehogs without spines. They're also a very common varmint in the Loonforce Dimension...not that this is any place like that.
Uphill, there's a ledge. Past it, there's another cliff wall. At any other time of day, the cliff wall is as bare as ever. By a moonlit night, there's a door within it; the moonlight spotlights its dimensions. It also spotlights its keyhole...as well as the dwarven runes that decorate both the upper part of its surface and the top half of the archway it's in.
This door was once an entrance to a dwarven hearth; dwarves have lived here in the past. At present, though, they've since emigrated. Naturally, though, they couldn't have been expected to take everything with them when they went; as one might expect, they're very greedy, and accumulate very large hoards. These dwarves, specifically, loved silver jewelry. Perhaps they've left some behind?
Before the door, a silken welcome mat lies. It's indigo...and very sheeny. There...also seems to be a strange-shaped lump within it...
You peel this mat back and retrieve what forms the lump. It's a key; it's forged from a silver-steel... And you're pretty sure where its twin lock is...
One turn of a lock later, and the door swings open. You creep inside and leave your way in open in your wake. You're on a landing. Not too far ahead, many series of stairs descend into dimly-lit shadow. The dim light, alas, occurs as glowing silver salt scattered within and all over the stonework within this chasm; hardly a spooky descent, if one isn't afraid of heights...or vertigo-prone.
In the walls near you, murals have been sculpted. They're of dwarves, basking in the moonlight, surrounded by all forms of subterranean creatures. One of them is a berserker who wears a stagskin hooded cloak. They seem a bit deranged, for beings so happy... But then, many who live in the Loonforce Dimension are often so deranged...albeit many don't express it the same.
Near another wall, a lantern sits. As it senses your presence, a lunar orb within its glassy bulb lights, and radiates light within five meters of itself. It raises its own handle, offering itself to you. You take it up and begin your descent down the many stairs.
As you descend, the ghosts of sea angels appear all around you. A sea angel is a sort of sea slug; they look like jellyfish, only more elaborate, and with no tentacles. They're fossils; these caves were once underwater, and this was once at the bottom of a great sea. Now, they haunt these caves. Not to worry, though; they don't seem wary of you. Or rather, they don't seem to see you as a threat.
Below and ahead, there's an underground reservoir. It's full of water; the water's surface is very reflective...like a very large mirror. Within it, blind white shrimp dwell. Among them, whitefish swim around very slowly. Among them, small silver catfish feel around the bottom and give the shrimp a berth...whenever they don't eat them.
Beyond the mirror lake, there's an apse. Within it, there are sculptures. There are also a few musical instruments leaning within stands. This is some sort of shrine; you sense it. Hard to tell, though, based on appearances, what the fuss is all about...
Across the lake, you follow a surfaced-rock path. You're very sure-footed; your lunacy keeps your stress levels low. Hence, you're less like a rock trying to walk across rocks.
Within the apse, you drift around, from spot to spot. There are many sculptures, relics, and runes within floors and walls to acknowledge. They all seem to have some sort of effect on you... Better thing, then, that you don't end up adopting a billion children before you leave...
There's something else here, too. On a roost, a phoenix sits. His plumage is silver...and reflective. He sits very calmly...flaunting is eyes...which glimmer like sapphires, blue topazes, or amethysts, depending on what sort of mood he's in...or depending on how the glistening silver salt within the walls radiates off his eyes...
Now, you're mesmerized. You remove your shaded goggles and survey the phoenix for a bit. You think you've found the new lord of these halls... Better thing he doesn't carry a scepter...or become one...
Moments later, alas, he needs no scepter...for he spontaneously combusts. His flames are white, bright, and more than ice-cold; they're cryo-flames.
In heaps of silver ashes, what remains of the great bird fall from the roost and accumulate in a pile that surrounds the base of the pole his roost is still on. For many moments afterwards, the ashes still generate dry ice; the fog that comes from them.
Once the fog clears, though, you see what you've came for among them. They're eggs. Alas, they're made of iodine; a medical substance with many uses. As things are, you can think of a few you'd rather.
Into a nearby wicker basket, you take each iodine tablet and drop it into the basket. This is starting to feel a bit like a gift basket...
Nearby, there's a coastline. Out here, the moon shines down on much here, too. The lunacy here, too, is very fertile. Actual loons often come here, dive, and fill a similar niche as sea ducks.
Ashore, purple night-herons nest. At present, they seem very much at-ease. Good thing the moon hasn't turned them into a bunch of flapping, fluttering blabbermouths...or hooters...
Nearby, a harp seal pup basks in the silver dust-mixed beach sands. He seems at-home. It doesn't seem to make a big difference that his mother is nowhere near... It's just as well; he needs not his mother's presence to look way too cute for seriousness.
You arrive. You leave your basket of iodine tablets with the night-herons. Nearby, you find a pail. You take it, cross the sands, and wade into the tidal shallows. Before long, and without having to generate too much effort, you've collected a pail of water from the sea.
Inshore, there's a Spanish mission. It's been abandoned...or rather, it's been mostly-abandoned. Its bells remain...although it's been a long time since they've been rung.
Into your pail of sea water, you drop a few of the iodine tablets. Next, you place the pail on a burner. Many long moments later, the water is boiling. More importantly, though, the water has now become potable.
With it, you brew some tea. Into it, you dump some ice. With a ladle, you serve some of it into a silver goblet. With the goblet, you drink. Ah; nothing's ever tasted better; never in a heifer, tequila worm in your Keppert.
Abroad, the moon still shines. Every now and then, a few clouds pass it by. Just as often, a subtle aurora flashes its dim lights. Matters can become quite loony, in the Loonforce Dimension...
Below, the local breezes often keep the mission and its facilities company... At times, the local aurae appear, and levitate around, singing their very soft songs. You almost don't believe that they're the spawn of goddesses. You'd be lying, though, if you said you never gave thanks for their presence.
Before long, you sit alone in the confessional. Every now and then, you creep out and visit the loo; that tea can really have your bladder working double-shifts.
Outside, through the main horseshoe-archway within the mission wall, the mission receives a visitor. He's a local youth. He's lost. And as you'll soon learn, a Hare Krishna won't help him.
Outside the confessional, he sits. As he does, he vents. Within the vent, you hear him out.
As you listen, your chest muscles swell. With opposite hands, you stroke their surfaces... On their own, they soon deflate themselves. Now, it seems, is no time to lactate. And you rather hope you'll never have a maternal need to. Youreallyhope you'll never have a maternal need to...
Kitsch, the kid just outside the confessional, elaborates on his issues. He sees women; they never see him. He has powerful feelings each time he sees them. He's not ready to talk to them. He doesn't know what to do. He can't act like a baby, but he can't keep them repressed, either.
Sitting still and keeping your mind in neutral, you advise him to take up art; it won't matter what kind. With sentiments such as those, projecting art is often a better way to cope with them than anything else. The art doesn't have to be complex; just a simple projection. The Byzantium will soon come, you promise him, as the simplicity ages.
Kitsch doesn't seem sure... Nonetheless, he heeds your instruction. It, after all, doesn't sound hard to do...at all. Plus, he can always project another vision if the first one he projects looks too much like a child's.
Kitsch soon leaves you in peace...but not without leaving a bag of silver coins just outside your vent. Seems strange, that he'd have them... But of course, this is the Loonforce Dimension; if things aren't strange, they're shaggy. Speaking of which, the bag that the coins are in, it seems, are made of taupe shag... Funny; you didn't realize that moles could be so shaggy...
Into a chest in the mission's treasury, you dump the coins. You soon stand at a horseshoe-arched window; a such-shaped shaft of moonlight showers you. You watch, through it, as Kitsch scurries his way through the main horseshoe-archway, and back to...wherever he'd settle down and boil his nuts...be that not South Georgia or North Florida.
In the sky above, something catches your eye. It looks like an eagle. Something's wrong, though; eagles are diurnal, and it's nighttime. It often is, here; even so, the very few birds of prey here have a way of staying active, despite the around-the-clock nights...
As it gets closer, you no longer think it's an eagle. You think that it's some sort of birdfellow with eagle wings... Then, it hits you; it's a karura.
A karura looks like an angel. Most of its body is humanoid...alas, it has a pair of wings that are akin to an eagle's. And yes; karuras are very flighted. Some of them, too, have the heads of eagles as well as the wings of the same. Others have human heads, and wear helms that only make their headslooklike an eagle's. Case in point, though, they can be bullies when they don't have to be. Hence, you'd be wise to arm yourself; this one looks like he's coming this way.
With an alder staff, you arm yourself. You march through a horseshoe-arched doorway, spin the staff around, and prepare to take on the approaching winged threat-maybe...
He lands atop the bell turret. He turns his huge beak here and there, scouting for signs of life...or whatever he might be here for. You can't tell if he's trying to emulate a lunar probe on the Moons... But then, depending on which khanate he hails from, he might not actually be aware of such gadgetry...or even that some of the Moons are inhabitable...or even that a moon is more than just a ball of light in a night sky that spikes delirium in all who live under it.
Into the open, you venture. You see him. From the ground, you raise your alder staff, and wave it...
He sees you. He leaps, flaps his wings, descends, and lands about ten paces before you. A pair of khopeshes, he draws from his harnessing. (A khopesh is a hook-shaped sword, akin to a battle-ax, that the Ancient Egyptian militias once used for security...as well as for a lot of jobs they were surely better off neither doing nor being assigned to do.) You certainly hope that this karura isn't here for one ofthosejobs...if anyone's even paying him to do this... If he even knows what pay is...
"My name," he speaks, "is Hank Hall." He sneezes. "It is Hank Hall!"
You coyly smile. "Let me guess; 'you hate us one and all,' too?" You coyly quote and old Johnny Cash song.
"I never know what to think," he admits, "for I often think too much."
"Well, then," you recommend. "Perhaps I can spare you the exhaustion. Or rather, perhaps Luna, here, can!"
Luna, a snowy owl, sits perched atop some nearby radio equipment. With one of her feet, she flips a lever. The lever causes a song to play; George Thoroughgood's "Move It On Over," specifically...
As the music plays, you start dancing. As you dance, you twirl the alder staff. Or rather, you don't so much dance...at first...as you do footwork. And yes, you also, whenever you feel like it, twirl the staff.
For the first verse, all Hall does is stare at you. He seems confused... And yet, at the same time, he taps one of his sabaton-clad feet, to the music... He's being cajoled; you can sense it... This, you also sense, is going to be rich...
In your own little spot, you become more creative with the choreography. You spin. You toss your staff into the air and catch it. The footwork, though, always remains your go-to. It might as well; when it comes to jobs like these, you tend to get exhausted very easily... Plus, the song-of-choice tempts it...
At long last, Hall shrugs, and starts going along with it. He, too, does the footwork. As you see what's happened, you start mirroring his footwork. For the next few verses and choruses of the song, you both play mirror...as well as reverse-mirror, depending on the common impulse...
Before long, Hall is spinning, leaping, flapping his wings, and clapping his pair of khopeshes together. At times, he even strikes them and makes sparks...
About now, birds start arriving. They're sandgrouse; they're like doves/pigeons, only desert-dwelling, and more colorful. There are only a few of them, now... Alas, as the song and the number both progress, it seems, for some reason, that they begin to manifest in quantity... Funny; you didn't realize there was so much seed in the soil of this Spanish mission... Then again, this is the Loonforce Dimension... It's also a mission...
As this all happens, the mission deviously terraforms itself. White adobe stepped pyramids start appearing everywhere. Between them, palm trees grow. From aloft, trapeze artists start swinging. Aloft, a big neon sign lights itself; its lit lettering reads, VIVA LUNA VEGAS. Another neon sign appears; its lit lettering spells SILVER CITY BALLROOM.
At times, the two of you top separate pyramids, and dance atop their respective tops. At other times, you chase one another around the surfaces of the same pyramid. The song and ball, it seems, drive the two of you forward. You just hope, of course, that Hall doesn't start to use those dual khopeshes for what the worst of Ancient Copts once did...and way too often for the women and children, you're sure...
Kazakh Doom, disguised as Don Rickles, emerges from an archway. He surveys the dance number... He then smiles, and starts dancing himself...
Across the mission grounds, there now seems to be a pond; a mirror pond. From the sides of it, geysers spray themselves artistically, and in-sync. Across its surface, there are a few solid platforms.
Both on separate platforms, in the midst of the mirror pond, you and Hall continue your dance and your footwork. Here, you continue to play mirror and reverse-mirror. Again, whenever you don't mirror one another atop separate platforms, you chase each other around the same platform.
Aloft, hovering UAVs join the show. They flash rainbow-colored lights, as if they were disco balls. It also almost looks like they're recording the performance... Too bad, alas, that this is all just a dream-within-a-dream...
In the meantime, the sandgrouse continue to litter the place. They've infested the steps on the pyramids. Neither you nor Hall ever step on them, thankfully... Doom/Rickles doesn't, either... You're just...not so sure why the sandgrouse suddenly prefer this mission, all of a sudden. You've heard of missions often complaining about having too many children to take care of, but this is ridiculous...
Doom/Rickles, it seems, has been joined by a pair of humanoid white tigers. Shades, they both wear. Together, and in-formation, they dance.
From other archways, showgirls soon pour. Very large feathers, they both wield and wear. Little else, they also wear. Seemingly un-bothered by the sandgrouse infestation, they dance and assist with the musical number.
From the tops of some of the pyramids, full-grown St. Bernards and Newfies now stand. At certain points within the song...and in-sync with it, they either bark or howl...or do whatever comes the most naturally. Swarms of sandgrouse land near them; alas, for some reason, they're never distracted by them. They are, it seems, the "big ole dogs" that the song sings about...
And they're not the only ones, it seems... Through a lit archway, as fireworks flash all around it, a large wolf makes his entrance. His name is Gökbörü; he was once a great shah among Iraqi Kurds. At his flanks, harem women and belly dancers accompany him...while dancing, too, while doing so. Not even George Thoroughgood, despite his prowess as a rock singer, was ever a shah...and neither were any of his Destroyers...
Atop the highest pyramid, you and the karura finish the performance. Aloft, the trapezes swing, and the UAVs do their dazzling. From peaks, the Newfies and St. Bernards howl. From his throne, Gökbörü sits and howls. On all of the pyramid steps, the showgirls perform. Every here and there, fireworks gush like geysers.. And everywhere else, the sandgrouse do more than infest...
At last, you ascend a series of adobe steps, up to the chapel roof. Near its midst, there's a chair. Here, you lie and rest; you plow through another crowd of sandgrouse, while doing so. In the background, the song ends.
From aloft, a flood drains itself all over you. It pours itself all over you, irrigating you. You barely flinch, as this happens. When the flood docks out, you continue to not react...
"Surreal," you murmur, repetitively. "Surreal... Surreal... Surreal... Surreal..."
Before too long, alas, something gnaws at one of your upper legs. You roll your head over, look...and see a land-crawling manta ray, sucking on your upper leg...
You wake. You're still in your partridge blind. You also realize that the Weimaraner is constantly licking your upper leg; in the same spot that the land manta in your dream was.
Through the porthole, you also see that the partridge flock is finally here. Hence, they're all begging to get shot...whether they mean to or not.
Your carbine is already loaded; a precaution that you took before phasing out. Good; this way, you won't risk spooking the game by reloading.
Through the embrasure, you stick the carbine's short barrel. You're very slow, while doing so; the partridges don't suspect a thing.
Through the carbine's scope, you seek out a target. First, though, you use it to do recon on a few likely options. There are many partridges out there, after all; you want to shoot your best chance. Your objective is where slow meets big...big, that is to say, with the idea in mind that partridges are amongst the smallest of game birds.
With your inner Sagittarius, you make your choice. You relax. Your hand, too, you relax. And gently, with your emotions invested in all of the right places, you pull the trigger.
The rest of the flock flies away, of course. With luck, though, when they all sit down at their metaphorical family table again...there will be, as the old hymn says, "one vacant chair..."
Like a hood on a coat, you raise the partridge blind. You unleash your Weimaraner and give him the command to fetch the fallen angel...if one will.
Like a good dog, Thomason follows orders. He ventures out into the fallow farm. Having been a while since the last time you covered his nose in cover-scent, he can now smell again. Hence, he does so. He covers every corner of the snow and of the crop residue, seeking out the trophy you've sent to the partridge afterlife... You're sure that, in the partridge afterlife, there are very large lakes full of cranberries. You only wish that you could trust that this partridge you've just shot had feasted on nothing but cranberries up to his demise; if so, his meat, after all might not require the addition of cranberries just to have marinated...or simply sweetened...
At last, the Weimaraner finds the trophy. He collects it in his jaws and approaches you. By now, you've already opened the game bag. You hold it open for Thomason, as he returns, and makes his deposit into the bag.
With a draw-string, you seal the bag. One down; as many more as you can get to go.
Aloft and away, the partridge flock still flies. You observe it. To an extent, the dog does, too...
"Now," you speak, "let's find a new place to set up the blind."
With that, you and the dog continue your campaign in Belleau Wood...so to speak. You expect to have plenty of partridges...and their gravy to spare...by the time the zenith of the holiday season arrives...if you wouldn't spend that zenith doing more of this, rather than having feasts with relatives and pals. But then, it just goes to show that there are actually helpful ways to be workaholics, Scrooges, and/or Grinches during the holiday season. Too bad Scrooge was never a foxhunter; it seems like he would've enjoyed it, even if he wouldn't have enjoyed Yule carols.
Either way, the partridges out here need killing. And you've no shortage of rimfire cartridges to do that killing. The true loves of some women only provide one partridge in a pear tree; you not only provide enough partridges to make the twelve drummers drumming look meager, but you can do that just as easily without the pear tree...an ever-branch-losing Bradford or otherwise.