Spies Are Like Daffodils
A Spontoon Island story
© 2023 by Walter Reimer

Thumbnail art by  rockbaker

Six.



“Miss? Excuse me, Miss?”

It took Nunevya a moment to realize that she was being spoken to. The minkess flinched away from gazing out the train window to look up at the steward, fearfully at first before she recollected where she was. “Oh! Um, yes?”

“Would you like another cup of tea?” the greyhound asked, nodding down at her empty cup.

“No, no thank you,” she said, and she watched as he walked away before turning back to look out the window at the passing scenery.

She wasn’t really looking, of course; the minkess had two conflicting thoughts on her mind. One, a slight feeling of relief that, as far as she knew, the two secret police agents she’d seen at the station in Tilikum hadn’t boarded the train with her. The second thought was irritation that the two foreigners had been thrown off the train for not having their tickets.

If nothing else, she could have used them to hide behind if the secret police succeeded in tracking her down and tried to kill her.

The sun was starting to set, and Nunevya felt her stomach growl at her. She hadn’t had anything to eat since breakfast, so she pulled her gaze away from the passing scenery and got to her feet, headed for the dining car.

She smiled when she saw that trout fried in lemon butter was on the menu. A white-jacketed steward showed her to a seat, and grinned as she enthusiastically placed her order, with roasted potatoes and steamed vegetables. His smile faltered slightly when she asked for an Orca-Cola to drink with the meal, but she was soon sipping at the sweet, fizzy beverage as she waited for her food.

The minkess had tried the soda shortly after being stationed at Tilikum, and she had liked it from the first sip.

The trout dinner was nothing short of ambrosia. It may have been her hunger, but everything on her plate tasted delicious. After eating she found her way to her berth, locked the door and closed the curtains, and got ready for bed. With a full stomach, Nunevya thought she might be able to get some sleep.

The train would stop at Longview in the morning, for passport and customs checks before entering United States territory and making its way to Tacoma.


***


“We are slowing down,” Igor remarked. Facing him, Ivan flexed his arms and continued to work the pawcar’s lever up and down.

Beside the bear, Henry frowned. “Well, it’s not me,” and he glared at the stork across from him. “Come on, Phlute! Put your back into it!”

“Shut . . . your . . . yap . . . Fluffy,” the Minkerton’s agent gasped, clearly getting exhausted by his exertions. He clacked his beak at the fox, barely missing nipping the tip of Patafuerte’s nose. “Ain’t . . . used . . . to this,” he panted as he helped Ivan on his side of the pawcar.

“That’s Yankees for you,” the Rain Islander said. “Too soft.”

“Is best to stay quiet,” Ivan said, the wolverine giving the fox a significant glance. “Save energy, yes?”

It was good advice, and the quartet continued in silence apart from the occasional grunt as they tried to catch up with the train. The sunset was eclipsed as the pawcar entered a tunnel.

There was a pause, broken by the sound of a loud car horn.

The pawcar came rocketing out of the tunnel, the four furs pumping feverishly and yelling “Faster!” in three languages – Russian, English, and Nootka – while barely staying ahead of a large sedan motorcar equipped with train car wheels and a cow-catcher, driven by a diminutive Catalina fox smoking what appeared to be a huge cigar. The sedan was decorated with the train line’s insignia and a grinning fox skull in white paint and rhinestones, and its passenger compartment was full of pungent smoke that trailed behind the vehicle.


***


The autogyro kept moving north, following the rail line as the sun set, and shortly after the stars came out the small aircraft’s observer patted Major von Fecklessenburg on the shoulder. The schnauzer turned toward the corsac fox, who pointed ahead and down. The Major looked in that direction, and grinned.

They had caught up with the train.

“Excellent,” he shouted in the observer’s ear. “Tell the pilot to maintain course and speed, and lower me,” and he ducked down to open the autogyro’s belly hatch as the fox relayed his orders to the pilot. With that task done, the observer set the ratchet on the winch beside his seat and paid out the first few meters of rope ladder, which whipped back and forth and gyrated in the slipstream.

Von Fecklessenburg nodded at the corsac and succeeded in planting a booted foot on one rung, following it with the other as the wind tore at his leather overcoat and trousers. A moment to make sure that he was sure of his footing, and he grabbed the ladder with his paws as the observer began cranking.

The schnauzer was grateful that he was wearing a leather flying helmet and goggles as he was lowered away, the weight causing the rope ladder to sway while the pilot brought the autogyro steadily closer. The silvery shape of the train grew closer until the small aircraft began passing down its length and the schnauzer started looking for a place to set down.

The autogyro’s engine sound changed, and the craft started to turn and gain altitude. Von Fecklessenburg glanced up crossly before something caught his eye.

Namely, the rapidly approaching mountainside.

The train had started entering a tunnel.

He hit the ground rather hard, dislodging his grip on the rope ladder and starting to tumble down the mountainside in a series of rolls and somersaults. The schnauzer struck a rock ledge and went hurtling off into empty space as the train passed below him.

Passengers in the observation car at the end of the train barely looked up from their books and magazines as a canine attired in a leather overcoat came hurtling through the glass dome and bounced twice on the carpeted aisle before coming to rest in a limp fetal position. After lying there for several minutes, the schnauzer struggled to his feet, straightened his overcoat and said in a haughty tone, “I meant to do that.”

No one acknowledged his statement, or his feat in boarding the train.

Von Fecklessenburg shook himself and removed his goggles and flying helmet as the train’s conductor stepped up to him. “Good evening, sir,” the bear said. “Rather unorthodox way of boarding,” and he glanced up at the hole in the observation car’s dome and sniffed at some sort of odor that had apparently accompanied the canine.

“I do apologize,” the schnauzer said, “but I had to catch up.”

“I see. Do you have – “

“My ticket, yes. Right here,” and the Major smiled as the conductor nodded approvingly and punched the ticket before giving it back to him.

“Enjoy your journey, sir,” the conductor said, and the bear left the car.

“Oh, I plan to enjoy it,” von Fecklessenburg said, half to himself. “I shall definitely enjoy it.”


***


It was almost three in the morning when the train slowly pulled to a halt at the station in Longview. It would take on more fuel, mail, and provisions, and after the passengers had eaten breakfast passports would be checked before the train crossed the border and proceeded to Tacoma. The schedule called for Golden Bear to set off by nine o’clock.

A rail inspection car, a large sedan equipped with railcar wheels and a cow-catcher, eased to a stop just before dawn with a muted screech of brakes, smoke billowing from its open windows as a quartet of furs tumbled out and staggered to their feet. Two of them, a stork and a wolverine, had their arms around each other’s shoulders; the other two, a bear and a fox, began to weave their way toward the station. The bear held a bottle a quarter-full of a clear liquid in one paw, and he took an occasional swig as he walked.

Patafuerte almost fell over as he turned to wave at the Catalina fox behind the wheel. He resumed his path to the station, muttering, “Great guy, that Cheech . . . great guy . . . “

The bobcat behind the grille at the ticket window wrinkled his nose and his ears went back in distaste at the reek of pungent smoke and cheap alcohol. Still, their money was good, and the feline gave them each a ticket very quickly.

Anything to get the stink as far away as possible.

Ivan pointed. “Train.”

Phlute squinted. “Train? Oh, oh yeah, that’s a train, yessiree, that’s a train, ayup, seen ‘em before . . . “

Igor said, “There are two of them.”

Patafuerte shook his head and staggered sideways three steps before he recovered his balance. “Train. Yeah. Um . . . seats . . . “

“Beds,” Phlute said dreamily. The wolverine and the bear nodded.

“Dining car,” the fox said.

All four paused, blinking.

“Dining car?!” they said in unison, and broke into a run toward the train, Phlute leading the way with his arms windmilling furiously and Patafuerte hot on his heels.

An open doorway beckoned, and all four took a running leap at it.

Clerks looked up and recoiled as a bulky bear, an equally bulky wolverine, an athletic fox and a gangly stork entered the mail car, struck the opposite wall almost hard enough to dent it and smashed a desk into kindling before collapsing into a heap surrounded by debris and a rapidly expanding puddle of liquid.

One of the clerks walked over and nudged one of the furs in the pile. “Huh. Passed out cold, the lot of them.”

Another looked at the puddle of liquid. “That was all the mucilage we had in stock.”

“They stuck the landing, at any rate,” the first clerk said, ignoring the second clerk’s groan at the joke. “We’ll just leave them there to sleep it off.”

“But,” the second clerk said, “stowaways – “

“They all have tickets,” and the first one pointed. Sure enough, all four of the furs were gripping tickets in their paws. “We’ll ask the station for some more supplies, and let these idiots sleep it off, whatever they’ve been doing.”

“I’ve been down Mixteca way,” the second clerk muttered after sniffing. “I know exactly what they’ve been doing.”




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