Tilly Tharp Chapter 1.2

I.II

Alfred, and all the others of his kind, as we are soon to see, are covered in a very fine, coarse fur which doesn’t reflect light but absorbs it. They are not shiny, like Klein or Rosa or any of the other cats. Alfred’s just about my height: four foot four. The fur is thickest around his chest, but that I find out later, because today he’s wearing a checkered sweater-vest. He’s also wearing trousers,  pink ones that are a little too long for him, and his feet are bare. Their feet are probably their most human-like characteristic. Although you’d suspect they would, they don’t have tails. Their hands are especially small and square, also similar to human’s but still covered in fur. Their faces, Alfred’s in particular, are round and small-featured. Their noses are especially petite and button-like, and their green eyes are also tiny and circular, with heavy lids curving over and under them.

And now with that visual, follow me as I chase after Alfred, because I am curious to see where he’s headed. He’s stumbling up the hill towards the pond, huffing and wheezing. I notice there’s something peculiar going on with the hill. Normally, I could spot the gathering of mossy rocks just west of the shore, but I don’t. It seems like there’s a steeper incline than usual. When Alfred reaches the top and should be within sight as he hits the shoreline, instead he disappears instantaneously. Has he vanished like I vanished? POP? I catch up. I’m at the top of the hill by Tillpond, but Tillpond is gone.

My heart is racing, mostly from running, but also from what I’m seeing. I roll up my sleeves and wipe my forehead and let out a sigh a bit like a “Wowww.” I don’t pay attention to Alfred anymore, he’s still off running somewhere. What was once Tillpond, or still is where I came from, is a sharp incline leading down to a deep valley of considerable size. There are buildings, hundreds of small box-like and stacked timber or brick structures. There are two rising buildings, not really sky-scrapers, but perhaps the equivalent of ten stories, which stand out from the cluster. Their facades are made of marble and look decrepit and crooked. There’s some sort of symbol atop each, with a monumental circular window below. One is in the south, one in the northeast. Past the valley, to the south, I see crops. They aren’t my family’s crops of corn or milo or soybean, but of a curious reddish wheat, it looks like. I want to go explore, but first there is the city to explore. And then I realize today I really am adventuring, this is a real adventure, and suddenly I feel giddy. Adventures don’t happen that often, you know?

Once the general awe subsides, I scurry after Alfred’s path, down the hillside into the valley where the city resides. As I get closer, I see rounded masses moving about, some slowly, and some frantically. From afar they all look the same to me, but perhaps that’s because my eye is still untrained to their appearance. When I arrive, I’m standing in a dirt road leading through the break in brick box-buildings. It’s not the main road, but there’s fifty or so bodies in motion. When I become clear in view, standing before the eastbound sun, seventeen of them stop. Their leaf-green microscopic eyes are fixed on me and there’s silence. I wonder, should I say something? Should I bow or extend my hand in a gesture of friendliness? Should I let them know I’m able to fight. Are they belligerent? They sure don’t seem so, and if they were, I could take them easy.

“You can call me Tilly or Matilda. Whichever suits you,” I voice to the crowd.

Murmurs, murmurs and shaking heads and words that aren’t English. Do they understand English? I don’t think so, or at least most of them don’t. One of them is eyeing me with especial attention, not speaking to the others. He’s even shorter than Alfred, portly and wearing a collared shirt that’s the same green as his eyes. When he notices me noticing him, he retreats into the crowd and I don’t see him anymore.

“What can I call you?” I ask, moving closer, down the street and picking one particular, seemingly female creature. I love making beings uncomfortable, human or not.

There’s a bustle of voices all at once, the creatures obviously offended. And then they concurrently start moving in all sorts of directions, but all are moving away from me. I’m sad for a moment and wait, still, expectant. One, surely one must come talk to me, must be intrigued. No. All, all seventeen scurry off in their respective directions. I’m left standing in the dirt road in the sepulcher of Tillpond, alone and anxious. Should I proceed? Perhaps I should just go home, If I can go home that is. But here it is. Here is this city, this marvelous, well really more of a town, with these creatures and the weird sun and the weird smell and the weird dandelions. I can’t go back. Cannot. When an adventure presents itself, you pursue it. Remember that, reader. It’s important to remember that.

So, with that thought, I resume walking. I walk one block, then another. No one bothers to acknowledge me any longer. Eyes are averted and mouths sealed shut in silence. There are stores on this street, small with little glass windows and painted yellow or maroon doors. One door is violet. I choose this one to enter. On the window is some text written in white, but it’s not in English. Inside, a single creature stands behind a counter, wearing thick wood-rimmed glasses. The fur just above his mouth is white, contrasting the dark gray fur of the rest of him.

“What can I buy here? What do you use for currency?” I eye him. He’s twitching a bit and fingering the papers on the countertop. His mouth opens briefly as if to speak, but he doesn’t. “This looks like lemon tart. Ohh, I’m starving. I have four pennies and a peppermint. Will that do?”

My voice is terrifying. He leaps under the counter. A few minutes later he springs up, places a sign on the counter which I assume reads “Closed,” and later learn it means “Closed,” before he runs into the back room and locks the door. I sigh. This adventure is turning up disappointing. I leave the store. I stride down the road, determined. I look every creature in the eye, but no eyes meet mine.

Alfred! Checkered sweater, pink pants, that’s him!

“Alfred! Alfred! I missed you! Why did you run away? Come over here!”

“Gone!” yelped the familiar creature, bolting off as he had only a little bit ago in the field.

But I am persistent. SOMEONE is going to acknowledge me. Someone is going to talk to me and befriend me and teach me about this miraculous place, because that is what happens in stories like these.

And that is precisely what happened… happens. Yes, happens. But it’s not Alfred. And it’s perhaps not the most ideal encounter. I’m three feet away from Alfred, panting a bit from the jog, when I hear a voice call over from the side of the street. It’s calling for me. A slightly taller fellow with golden, brown-speckled fur in a felt hat is haling me with his short arms and baby hands. For a second, I consider keeping on in my way to harass Alfred. But instead I stride over to the taller fellow and put a spanning grin on my face. “Howdy,” I say and I extend my hand.

He grins. I’d not seen their teeth before this, but they’re (unsurprisingly) dainty and square and very white. Ghostly white. The fellow takes my hand, but instead of shaking it, tugs quite harshly. Before I can give a holler, I’m in the unlit nearby building, which has only one circular window draped in velvet shades.

"This is an interesting way of introduction. Is this customary for your people?”

“Stop jabbering,” the fellow barks, and it really is like a bark.

“English? Refreshing!”

“I said stop; I’ve heard enough of your rambling. Be quiet, little thing, and let me observe you.”

“What did you call me?”

He’s put me into a chair and he’s locked the door, and while I’m pretty certain I could escape should I desire it, I sit still and watch him. This is the attention I’ve been craving. And within these walls I feel the potential for adventure. This creature’s nails are very short. I wonder if they chew their nails as some humans do?

“How did you arrive here, in the city?”

“Your English is remarkable, in comparison to what I think I heard Alfred mutter earlier.”

“Don’t assign your petty human names to our kind. I find them unsettling and distasteful.”

“You’ve been to the human world, then, haven’t you? Have you seen my farm then? I wonder, have I ever come across you and thought you a cat, as I did Alfred, or a bobcat or a mountain lion?”

“Was it this ‘Alfred’ who let you in?”

“Oh, you mean the POP vanishing? No. That was Kit. Actually, I’d forgotten about him. He is still in the woods, I believe. I should check on him later. He was a bit frantic.”

“Kit? That isn’t one of our names. A ‘human’ was it then? Come on girl, give me straight answers. I grow impatient easily.”

“Impatience is a virtue, I believe, fellow. Kit is not a human, he is a young fox and he was sniffing the patch of dandelions. I followed him to the patch of dandelions, and as he transferred from there to here so did I. Is that a straight answer for you? I suppose giving straight answers is a skill to delevop.”

“A ‘fox?’ But why are you here? Why did you come to the city?”

“I chased after Alfred. I only wanted to introduce myself and befriend him, but he scampered off in a fit. I had to follow.”

“What are you called?”

Did I mention he’s taking notes during this? Yes, he has a notepad and pen and ink and he is taking frantic notes. His brow is tightly knitted as he does so.

“Matilda. But please call me Tilly.”

“Atrocious. You shall be Tilree.”

“Sounds good to me! What is your name, fellow?”

“Excuse me, Dr. Rehckiff But enough! Enough! This is distraction.”

He’s taken off the hat now and is spinning it between his fingers. His ears, which are also alike to humans’ while being fur-clothed, are twitching quickly as he is thinking.

“How old are you?”

“Eleven and five sixths.”

“Great Quiggness! A baby still, an infant.”

“An infant? I am nearly a teenager, Mister. I am not an infant. You must live rather long then?”

“Approximately one-hundred and thirty years in your time.”

“In our time? Do you have different calendars?”

“I did not bring you here to answer your questions about our civilization. The less you know, the better. Should you learn too much, I may elect to keep you here forever.”

“That wouldn’t be so bad. I think I like this place.” I adjust in the seat. It’s amazingly comfortable. “Why did you bring me here? I am not very fascinating, as you’ll find out.”

“Did you come from far to the place of transference?”

“Did you venture far in the human world?”

“What is your occupation?” he asks.

“What is yours? Why do you all wear clothes? You have fur, don’t you? And were you ever part of our world? How are we different, how are things so alike and yet different?”

“That is enough for today. Come with me.”

Perhaps I should have debated, thought over whether coming with him was a wise decision, in retrospect. But I was an eleven-and-five-sixths-year-old and I wanted to experience something marvelous and unpredictable.

So I come with Dr. Rehckiff and he shows me a small room with a square-foot window, cot with wool blanket, and a small desk with paper and pen, should I have the spontanenous urge to write. In there I go, and in there I stay throughout the rest of the day. After fifty minutes I begin to regret my decision. I am as isolated and bored as before. I could write, but at that moment in my life, reader, I did not like writing. In fact, I hated it with a passion. As I lounge on the cot, I am left to a million questions swimming around inside my skull which I cannot find an answer to. I can only imagine the answers, and that is a minute sort of pleasure.

When the light from the window begins to lessen, the door opens and Dr. Rehckiff hoists in a plate of steaming soup. There’s no meat, so I’m immediately disillusioned. However, after one bite it proves to be more delicious than anything the woman or the man ever made and I lick the bowl clean. He’s provided a bit of moist bread and milk as well. I begin to think I am not so hell-bent as I thought. I sleep the rest of the night and far into the morning.

A/N: The last part ended so awkwardly because it was in  the middle of the first chapter, and couldn't find a place to split it without going on for another whole page. Apologies for that. But here's the last part of the first chapter! Thanks so much for your reviews, please continue to critique if you so like! I also apologize for the roughness of this work; it was, as I said, a NaNo novel, and has not been edited since then. :)