The Masters' Call

Here it is, the much-anticipated new story, at least to the 6 of you who follow this blog.
What to say about this one? Well, it took me many sittings, sweat, tears, and even a little blood (when my pen ran out of ink) to write, and it's a few pages longer than "Sins of the Father." Yet it's also a little more light-hearted and, I think, fun to read.

**Just kidding about the blood, to those of you who may be in the bad habit of taking what I put on here seriously!

The Masters' Call

Chapter 1

The members of “The Castaways” sat upright around the coffee table, gravely contemplating how to rescue the band from obscurity and financial ruin. The bad press about the band being “specist” and increased competition from upstart bands like “Caterwaul” and “Blue Sty Blues” had cut their number of gigs down to a fourth of last year’s. Last week’s show at Uncle Remoo’s Bar in Cornshire’s main town, Acadox, had finally shaken them out of denial: their most ardent supporters while they were at the top of the music world, the bovines at Remoo’s had mooed and booed them off the stage before they had even played a song.
“I really don’t understand why the rabble still thinks we’re specist after bringing on ole’ Harry boy,” growled Chester, an exceptionally curly-haired Old English sheepdog who played-- in fact, invented-- the doghammer dulcimer, as well as every brass instrument that existed in Panimalia. Harry, an eight-year-old chimpanzee with a ready and rather toothy smile, had joined the band two months ago to play the ukulele.
“I dare say it’s those bloody mewing calicoes tarnishing our rep,” griped Britt. “They’re jelly of us, I tell you.” Britt was a bright but cynical English foxhound whose habit of designating cats as “calicoes” in denigrating mid-show cat-calls had transformed the term into a pejorative. Nevertheless, he was widely regarded as the greatest drum, cajón, and bongo player in living memory.
Artagan, a nine-year-old Border collie pianist and the undisputed leader of the band, finally barked up, nearly dropping his stubby unlit cigar in the process. “Britt, we’ve all discussed the feline issue-- multiple times, in fact-- and we’ve concluded that there wouldn’t be an issue at all if you could keep your yapper shut on-stage and just drum. The same goes for all your other bigotries. But the damage is done, and now we have to decide how to fix it. Murray, what do you think?”
Murray, an excitable West Highland white terrier who played the washboard and the cowbell, responded earnestly, “I’m afeard we’re gonna hafta resk a tourrr into the Perserrrve.”
The Preserve, of course, was the territory allotted to the humans after the Uprising of 1011. Although legend had it they were the first talking animals and had taught the others how to speak, the humans’ violent nature and intractable specism had given the other animals little choice but to banish them. After the establishment of the Preserve, there had been little violence in Panimalia apart from sporadic attacks by humans from the Preserve known as Barsavians-- which the elephants and bears always handled-- and a longstanding feud between the tortoises and the hares. Yet the Panimalians, especially the College-educated ones like the canines in “The Castaways,” maintained their dogged hope that someday the humans would renounce their violence and be united with their brethren in Panimalia.
As he observed the profound effect his idea had wrought on his companions, Murray realized he had struck a chord. Of course, the band was also always deeply moved by the sound of F major on Harry’s ukulele, which Murray had just strummed. Either way, the other three pooches settled their heads on the table with a collective whimper and uncertainty in their eyes. Less disturbed (or just more selfish) than the others, Harry snatched his ukulele from Murray’s hand while he was distracted.
Ever ready to start a discussion, Artagan shifted his cigar to one side and said, “Well, the obvious drawback to your suggestion is that the humans may not view us favorably and might actually attempt to kill us with their weapons. If I recall my Panimalian history lessons correctly, the last time a group of Panimals entered the Preserve was thirty-five years ago in 1199, when a group of horses and buffaloes went in there to stop the Great War. The humans apparently killed them or took them all captive, because they never came back.”
Chester responded with a howl. “Hot soyburgers! We don’t really want to go there, do we chaps? I’d almost rather brave the Hinterlands! There’s some other way, isn’t there? There’s got to be!”
“The Preserve, dear Chester,” Artagan responded, “is the only place where we might be able to land some good gigs at this point. All we’ve got lined up for the next six months are meerkat burrow shows and beaver pond parties.”
“And playing for rodents,” Britt snarled the word, “is very much like playing for dumb Hinterlanders. I dare say they have absolutely no appreciation for the finer things.”
“Now Britt,” Murray gently chided, “meeeerkats and beaverrrs are full Panimalians just like we are.”
“That’s true, Murray, but Britt’s right,” Artagan continued, “and we also know that humans have-- or at least had-- the most sophisticated musical tastes of any species, including canines. So not only could we pack human theatres or bars by being the first Panimalian band to play in the Preserve in ages, we could be exposed to their music. We may even be able to open up the Panimalian-Human dialogue that hasn’t been open for years. Just think of all the good we could do, if only we conquer our fears! What do you say?”
Groups of dogs rarely take more than a few minutes to decide anything, and the rest of the dogs nearly always followed their charismatic leader. Harry, as usual, had not taken an interest in the issue, preferring to play his ukulele or perhaps tantalize an insect he had discovered. So the triumphant howls from the four dogs settled the issue: they were headed into the Preserve to change their fortunes and remake the world.

Chapter 2

It was mid-morning on the second day of the journey when the pooches began to feel the effects of carrying saddlebags of instruments and emergency provisions. Chester had chosen to bring only his trumpet, and Britt carried his set of three lightweight bongos. Artagan’s small traveling piano was the heaviest by far, and the straps had begun to wear blisters on his sides. Harry, on the other hand, had only a ukulele and a sack of bananas to carry, and was amassing quite a diverse butterfly collection in another burlap sack. By noon, Harry’s ukulele playing had completely lost its charm, and as they ascended a small grassy hill Britt asked him,
“Harry, why don’t you help Artagan with his piano instead of chasing after butterflies?”
Harry frowned for a moment before replying, “Who plays the piano in our band?”
“Uhh, Artagan has always played the piano… where have you been the last couple months?”
Embarrassed at the revelation of his cluelessness, Harry begrudgingly consented to bear Artagan’s load. Though Artagan harbored serious misgivings about Harry’s sanity, his suffering compelled him to impart his precious piano to Harry’s dubious care.
The band of seven travelers made their way along the Eastward Path over hill, dale, forest, plain, and stream toward the Outer Preserve, a swath of forestland that separated the Preserve from Panimalia. The daily rate of dents inflicted on the piano leveled out to two, and Harry’s fresh apologies and promises that followed each new mishap became as routine as breaking camp. Every morning after a quick breakfast and Artagan’s daily exhortation for Harry to “be careful with my piano,” the band would set out toward the rising sun until their empty stomachs halted them at midday. The canines, now with equal loads to carry, reminisced about their Cornshire College years and the glory days of “The Castaways.” At towns along the path, the dogs posted letters to their mates and other family members while Harry played his ukulele, stopping only to add to his bug collection. They played a few impromptu roadside gigs that earned some eggs from kindly chickens and a large batch of corn from a few pig farmers who were long-time fans of the band. Britt wrote a fantastically specist song-- which the band refused to ever play-- called “Casting Pearls Before Swine.” At night around the campfire, the dogs and Harry would stare into the flames and talk about what they thought they’d encounter in the Preserve, and whether the humans were still violent or if they had become more peace-loving. When the fire finally consumed itself, the animals gazed at the stars until silence and sleep descended, lifted only by the dawn which roused them as it had their ancient forebears.

Chapter 3

The afternoon of the twelfth day of the journey, the leaner, more confident travelers reached the end of the Eastward Path in a sparse evergreen forest in eastern Howelshire. A large boulder marked with archaic lettering formed the emphatic exclamation point to the trail. It read:
“Entry into Outer Preserve must be approved by Howelshire fox office.”
Below this was scribbled:
“I always say no, so don’t even ask.”
Pointing at a nearby straw-thatched hut, Murray piped up, “D’ya reckon that wee hovel is the fox office? It looks nothing at all like our fox office.”
“Of course it doesn’t,” Britt chimed in. “The fox-sheriff in this shire would be lucky to have one case in a week!”
As Harry looked on, the dogs entered the hut and found it empty except for a desk, a cushion behind the desk, and a wide assortment of swords and hats. After a moment of searching and sniffing , Murray barked out excitedly from on top of the desk, “Look up herrre at this sign! It says, ‘Prowling. Will return when I feel like it. Sheriff Carlos.’” Murray exclaimed, “Carlos! That doesn’t sound Panimalian!”
Britt disdainfully replied, “He’s probably one of those half-breeds. I’ve heard that animals in these provincial regions sometimes interbreed with dumb Hinterlanders.”
“Britt, ole boy,” Chester said, “you always assume the worst. This Carlos is our ticket into the Preserve, so do keep a lid on your wild speculations when he comes round.”
A sly, mellifluous voice from the door shocked them out of their deliberations, causing Murray to yelp and scurry underneath the desk.
“You got speculations, Holmes? What speculations you got, big guy?” A vulpine silhouette darkened the doorway, and there was no mistaking that this figure was Sheriff Carlos.
The fox entered the room with a distinguished air, adorned in a cowboy hat, epaulets, and a belt with a sword and scabbard. He stared at Britt, awaiting a reply.
“Cat got your tongue, Mr. Sheepdog?” Carlos prodded.
“Sorry, Good Sheriff, I misspoke. If I had known the great eminence of your, er, eminent personage, I would have forborne my crude speculation.”
“No doubt.” With a stern look, the fox locked eyes with each of the dogs in turn, except for Murray, who remained under the desk covering his eyes with his paws. Finally, the fox spoke again, this time to Artagan.
“You’re the leader, aren’t ya?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And lemme guess, you all want to go to the Preserve, right, Señor Cigar?
“Yes, sir… and my name is Artagan, sir.”
“Well, Artagansir, did you read the boulder?”
Artagan and Chester exchanged a portentous glance. They both felt the conversation crashing down around them.
“Yes; as I recall, sir, someone had written, ‘I always say no, so don’t even ask.’”
“Mm-hm. That someone was me,” Carlos intoned, smiling at Artagan. He walked around his desk and planted himself on his cushion. The air thickened as he prepared to pronounce his judgment.
“The Preserve’s a war zone, and I don’t let any adventure-seekin’ chicos in. A long time ago, I let in some horses and buffaloes when the Great War between the Feralians and the Barsavians had just flashed up again. They were book-learned Cornshirites who they thought they knew everything to know about humans. Thought they could somehow bring the war to an end, but of course they never returned, and the war rages on, thirty-five years later. After a month, I went in after ‘em myself, but all I found were hombres-- mostly soldiers, actually.”
“Did you talk to any of them? What were they like?” Artagan asked.
“Talk to a man! Ha! If you tried to talk to a man, he’d put an arrow through you like wild Hinterland game and eat you for supper! The humans aren’t like they were before the Uprising, if those old stories are true. They can still speak and build things, but all of their creativity now goes into making war.”
“Do they still listen to music?” Artagan asked.
Carlos gave him a quizzical look. He replied,
“Well, I’ve never heard any music in my travels near Feralia-- that’s the city on this side of the Preserve-- but that doesn’t mean it’s completely died out. Who knows?”
Perceiving his chance, Artagan made his pitch. “Sir, we’re musicians-- the best musicians in Panimalia, in fact. We’ve walked twelve days to get here, and we intend to keep walking until we make it to a human city. We’re going to play the best music they’ve ever heard, then we’re going to find out how to bring our two peoples back together. That’s what we intend to do… with your blessing or without it.”
After a tense moment, the fox finally cracked a wry smile and emitted a low chuckle before replying, “Ya know, you’re the first hombres with the determination to cross me. I kinda like it, actually. Maybe it’s because I’m getting old, but you chicos make me want to believe that change can happen. My whole life, entering the Preserve has been the greatest fear for most Panimalians. If anyone can change this, I think it’s you hombres; although I have my doubts about that white mop quivering under my desk.”
“So you’ll let us go?” Murray piped up, finally coming out from underneath the desk.
“I’ll take you as far as the first sentry outpost, almost two days’ trot from here. We’ll start tomorrow at daybreak.”
Only Harry slept well that night, dreaming his favorite dreams of Bananaland. Thoughts of the history they were about to make consumed the others until dawn.

Chapter 4

The animals smelled smoke as the light faded on the second day. Carlos whispered, “We’re almost at the first Feralian outpost. The smoke must be from the sentries’ campfire.”
After another minute, a high stone wall half-covered by ivy appeared through the leaves. Smoke rose from the enclosure beyond. Just before they reached the wall, Carlos bid them adios, with final instructions to “be veeery wary of the humans, especially the Barsavians.” A moment later, he was gone.
As they reached the wall, which was no more than fifty feet long, they noticed a thick oak door standing agape. After warning the others to be silent, setting down his gear, and handing his omnipresent cigar to Chester, Artagan peered inside.
A crumbling, small stone house stood along the left wall, surrounded by a courtyard of stone, grass poking through every fissure as if to reclaim its former property. A weather-beaten moss-covered statue stood in the midst of the small space; Artagan made out two stone legs, the lower half of a harp, and the remains of a torso, while a head lay propped against the base of the statue. A single wood chair stood to one side of the sculpture, and beside it a small fire sent up smoke. A solitary human figure tended the fire, partially blocked by the flames.
Turning to the others waiting expectantly for his report, Artagan whispered, “It’s a human! He’s just beyond the fire.”
“Let me see!” Harry responded, much too loudly.
“Quiet, he’ll hear us!” Britt whispered. Looking back through the door, Artagan saw that Harry had already given them away. The man looked up, grabbed his bow and quiver, and slowly advanced toward the door, shouting,
“Who’s there?”
Artagan swiftly replied, “Don’t shoot! We come in peace!”
In another moment, the man was at the doorway, and a puzzled look came over his handsome face as he realized who his visitors were.
“What do we have here? Panimalians?”
“Yes, sir. We, ‘The Castaways,’ bring greetings from Cornshire, Panimalia,” Artagan replied.
Lowering his bow with a sigh of relief, the man exclaimed, “Castaways, eh? I thought you were Barsavians!” Pointing at Artagan, Chester, and Britt, the man said, “Now, you three are most certainly dogs. And you, little white one, you’re… a rabbit? No, a meerkat!”
Insulted and trying to salvage his wrecked dignity, Murray restrained his ire and replied with a forced smile, “Sirrr, I am also a canine, a terrierrr of the West Highland clan, Murray by name.”
“My deepest apologies, Murray of the West Highland clan. Now you,” the man said, pointing to Harry, “you are a monkey of some sort, are you not?”
“Chimpanzee! Chimpanzee! CHIMPANZEE!” Harry screamed, hopping up and down and swinging his arms. The human warily took a step back and re-raised his bow.
“Harry, control yourself!” Artagan ordered. Then, to the man, he said, “I’m sorry for that one, sir. Chimpanzees just hate being called monkeys, that’s all. I promise he’s harmless.”
Satisfied with Artagan’s explanation and Harry’s regained composure, the man replied, “Again, my apologies, Harry the Chimpanzee, I meant no offense. My name is Vestigius, son of Verilonius, of the Feralian Corps of Messengers. I don’t think I caught your three names,” he said, pointing to the larger pooches.
“I’m Artagan, and these are my companions Chester and Britt. We’re musicians, come to the Preserve to renew the relationship between Panimalians and humans and to enjoy music with your people.”
Vestigius’ blue eyes lit up. “Is that right? I’ve always wanted to learn how to play an instrument, but I’m afraid it’s become a lost art in Feralia.” Noticing the fading light and the encroaching cold, he continued, “Come in and let’s talk about it around the fire. Would you like some rice and beans? You must be starved.”
With that, Harry and the dogs made their way into the outpost, Harry still brooding over the insult he had received. As they settled around the fire, Artagan, Chester, and Murray exchanged excited glances, and even Britt seemed to appreciate the historicity of the moment. They had made contact.

Chapter 5

That night, Vestigius, the dogs, and even Harry (once his wounded pride had healed) stayed up for hours comparing stories. Vestigius regaled them with the human version of the Uprising of 1011, when humans reacted against the full citizenship that had been accorded to every talking animal.
“The moment” Vestigius said, “when we decided we were better than other Panimalians, was the moment I believe we lost our humanity. The arrogance of some humans caused them to take you animals too lightly until you defeated them, battle after battle, driving them into what became known as the Preserve. The rest of my kin you relocated here as well, out of fear of similar uprisings. We humans sealed our own fate all those years ago by turning against you, our brothers, and we’ve been paying the penalty ever since. Today, few of my people can even read, the arts have been forgotten, and human children are brought up to be killers, brutes more savage than the Hinterlanders.”
“What about the war? How did that bloody mess start?” Chester inquired.
“Well, the 90,000 or so humans who first settled in the Preserve established two major cities, Barsavia and Feralia, and a number of smaller ones. All the leaders of the Uprising settled in Barsavia, and after a generation or two, they began to plot to re-take Panimalia. Most of the other humans were less inclined, but the Barsavians drove them out from the towns surrounding the city. Eventually, in the year 1043, we Feralians reached the end of our forbearance, and marched against Barsavia. Unfortunately, the Barsavians had been arming for war against the Panimalians and were more prepared than we anticipated, so they routed us in battle outside the gates of the city. Thus began what we humans call the Great War, which has dragged on for nearly two hundred years. Sometimes truces are called, but one side or the other always reignites the war. Both Feralia and Barsavia have become impenetrable fortress-cities, so the fighting inevitably reaches an impasse.”
The canines raptly listened, entranced by the story and even more by the real human who stood before them. He was taller than they had anticipated, with locks of dark blond hair that hung down to his broad shoulders. He spoke more clearly and easily than any Panimalian they had ever heard (even Artagan or their former professors), as if he had been created to talk.
Murray piped up with a question that had been plaguing him the entire time. “Vestigius, if humans have become so brutal, how have you managed to acquirrre your education?”
“Ah, well, I was fortunate to have a father who still read and appreciated art, a man of rare conscience. Mother was the same way. My first six years, he taught me to read and to think as best a child can. Yet when war broke out again in 1199, he was sent to the front lines as a General in the Feralian Army, and I never saw him again. I still remember his final instructions to me as he said goodbye. They were simply, ‘Read.’ We were later told that as his dying wish he requested that I should be brought up as a scholar to keep the old memories alive, and to never fight on the front lines. That’s why I’ve been here for most of the past twenty years, keeping the area secure and spending most of my time reading books I’ve rescued from deserted libraries, school,s and houses nearby.”
“So hardly any humans can read anymore?” Britt asked.
“I’m afraid not, for the most part. Once-proud Feralian culture crumbled long ago, before living memory. A few literate elderly people still live nearby, but most Feralians have gone off to aid in the war effort. We now number only five thousand, and Barsavians little more than that. Yet they keep fighting the same old battles, ignorant of the history they are repeating.”
Troubled by this news, Artagan replied, “Quite a distressing state of affairs, considering humans were the first ones to talk, read and write, build houses, and play music. Why, none of us Panimalians would be able to do any of that if you humans hadn’t taught us.”
After much more conversation, the animals finally settled into a contented slumber. Yet Vestigius, reclining in his chair with crossed legs, gazed into the fire until dawn, contemplatively smoking his pipe. Occasionally, he would squint at the stars and wonder if there was some force in the universe that had brought these animals to his doorstep, or if this was another false hope in a trail of tears.

Chapter 6

Harry and the dogs awoke to Vestigius’ baritone voice.
“I’ll be back in an hour. I’m going on my morning reconnoiter. The rice and beans should be ready in a few minutes.”
After they had eaten their fill of breakfast, the members of “The Castaways” held a short conference to determine what their next step should be. Murray led off.
“I say we should keep goin’, but-- no offense Artagan-- I’d be a lot morrre comfortable if Vestigius were to lead us.”
Britt voiced his agreement, which Chester echoed. As was often the case, Artagan had to draw Harry down from the stratosphere into the discussion. Harry said,
“Ah, we don’t need that man, Artagan. Are you afraid to lead now? Take us in there yourself, like we planned!”
Artagan found himself torn by a familiar will to lead and an alien desire to follow this human. Yet as he reflected on this novel difficulty, understanding slowly dawned on him. Trying to put it into words, he said,
“Do any of you see what’s happening here?”
Receiving blank stares, Artagan elaborated, “Remember Panimalian History 101, freshanimal year? The humans and the dogs were always the two closest Panimalians before the Uprising. Even after the humans were banished, some dogs followed them here until the fox offices cracked down on them. That very thing is happening to us right now! We’re meant to be friends with humans, it’s in our blood! Maybe that’s even the real reason we came here.”
Understanding spread across the dogs’ faces, though Harry appeared nonplussed. Yet this realization only complicated matters. The question shifted to whether they should follow Vestigius or strike out on their own. Eventually, a compromise was reached: they would head towards Feralia later that morning, whether Vestigius decided to lead them or not.
Upon his return, the canines inquired whether Vestigius would be willing to lead them toward the city. Confident he had secured his region, he accepted without hesitation. To get ready, Vestigius merely had to put an impressive foot-long knife in his belt, top off his quiver, and pack enough food for three days’ travel. They set out on the final leg of their long journey, the dogs carrying their instruments in high hopes of soon using them.

Chapter 7

The next day as the band of travelers crossed a meadow flanked by an abandoned farmhouse, the animals saw something they never expected to see: a pair of Panimalian horses. They stood near a small shed grazing and talking to one another in low voices. Vestigius explained,
“Those two are probably the only Feralian Panimals, Clyde and Cymbal, good friends of mine. They came here from Panimalia with others many years ago to help my people put an end to the war. The Barsavians treacherously slew their companions in a diplomatic meeting, yet they survived and kept working for peace for many years. A few years ago, they received honorary citizenship.”
“Can we talk to them for a moment, Vestigius?” Murray queried.
“Of course.”
The horses noticed them when they were halfway across the meadow. When Harry and the dogs reached the horses, they nickered loudly, the traditional Panimalian horse greeting. Barking back excitedly, Murray immediately began chatting with the horses. While Vestigius waited nearby, the horses recounted dramatic stories of close encounters with specist Barsavians and even Feralians which enthralled Harry and the canines. When Vestigius called for them to go, the horses left them with some hard-earned advice.
“No matter what you experience, don’t ever lose your faith that someday Panimalians and humans can live in harmony once again. Always challenge them to remember who they are. They were once called “Dogs’ Best Friends.” And never forget who you are, either. You are Panimalian dogs; a natural love for humanity is your birthright.”
As they continued on the day’s journey, the animals reflected on all they had learned from Clyde and Cymbal. Yet their meditations were soon cut short by another encounter.
They were passing between a couple rocky hills when the dogs heard voices echoing off the rocks ahead of them. Alerting Vestigius, the group halted and listened. As the voices got louder, Vestigius’ eyes widened and his body tensed. Sensing fear, the animals waited for him to act. After a moment, Vestigius made for the closest hill, and the animals followed behind. He whispered one word over his shoulder: Barsavians.
Finding cover behind a fallen log halfway up the hill, the group watched as a patrol of ten Barsavian soldiers appeared from around the bend on the path below them, talking and grunting loudly. At the pace they were headed, they would encounter Clyde and Cymbal in less than an hour. Vestigius’ breathing was now controlled and Artagan thought he could glimpse Vestigius’ mind calculating the odds of success. His jaw setting in determination, he rose silently from his crouch, drawing, notching, and aiming his first arrow in one fluid motion. The animals followed the arrow’s path as it sailed through the air into the exposed neck of the patrol’s leader. Before he had even fallen, another arrow pierced the second Barsavian in nearly the same location. A third had fallen before the patrol began to scatter towards a grove of trees at the base of the hill they occupied. After a short pause, Vestigius released a fourth arrow that found its mark in the exposed side of another Barsavian. When the next arrow lodged into a tree inches from another soldier, the brutes finally seemed to determine where their assailant was located. A moment later, the six remaining combatants burst from their cover with barbaric sound and fury. After the first one out had taken three steps, Vestigius sent an arrow through his lower abdomen, but he kept charging and Vestigius had to waste another arrow to finish him off. Making a quick calculation, he dropped his bow and pulled his long-bladed knife from his belt.
As Vestigius leapt over the log to meet the Barsavian hun, Artagan’s mind’s eye spontaneously moved to the imagined future. He was leading “The Castaways” in a montage of their greatest hits in front of a concert hall packed with humans and Panimalians. Every member of the audience was smiling, and some were clapping, laughing, mooing, yapping, nuzzling, holding hands, or dancing… and the humans were their biggest fans.
Snapping back to reality, he saw he no longer had to lead his companions. They had already followed their leader over the log into the fray, barking and howling furiously. Even Harry had dropped his bug collection and had sprinted off down the embankment, wielding his ukulele like a battle axe. Remembering his birthright, Artagan let ring a primal howl as he burst out from his protection to meet the foe.