Churning liquid filled Jo’s ears. Not from being submerged in a bath, but from a source in the distance. Whoever had constructed this place must have been at the dim start of their stellar career. A screen, even a curtain, would have been better than the partition that separated his bedroom from that of next door. Disputes and viewpoints; coughs and sneezes. Hardly masked any of them. And he still couldn’t understand how a nail hadn’t appeared on his side the last time they rearranged their landscape collection.

But swirling water from a sink—or toilet—two ‘curtains’ to Jo’s right; that was something he would have to speak to the Interior Composer about.

That and the golden ox skull on the landing. It was as if Jay had been on one of his trips to the Odds-and-ends shop on the Western Border again. A souvenir that looked as if it was going to walk out of its grey canvas and start munching the succulents or grasses in the trio of snow-white planters.

“Give it a week,” Jay and the composer had both said. “Let it grow on you.” Oh, it had grown alright, Jo grimaced. To where he wanted to take it to the recycling yard shop towards the Eastern Bounds. Only the gold did seem to add a beautiful contrast to the warm purple, cool grey and distant white that made up the rest of the landing.

But now he was getting right off-track. Back to the flushed cistern two so-called walls away and its fellow party-goers; nocturnal riders tuning their cycles at not-far-away lights; two pint-sized but hair-raising felines going through the preliminaries to a territorial dispute. Not to mention the blackbird who had started the early morning chorus when it was still the near-side of Midnight. Who was the bright or delirious spark that had said Night-time and Quiet-time went together? They needed to come to Esméduné.

A clap of thunder shook that mode of thought clean out of Jo’s focus. That hadn’t come from outside, he frowned. More from the vicinity of the speakers nestled upon the wardrobe; although even if a station was having problems, it wasn’t usually that loud. Nor the out-of-the-midst-of-ambience tracks that would usually be a source of unexpected sounds.

At least, that was what should have been on the station at this hour. Not the chap who had the combative duo that poured over the morning’s news. It was the wrong night - or morning - for that. Build-up music would be more appropriate than hand-to-mouth arguments.

Only it had been on the first preset when he had gone downstairs for tea. And had been on the same station when he had drifted into a bedside nap. Not this character who Jay listened to, accompanied by chuckles of laughter. Although Jo couldn’t for the floral fields understand why. Each time he went over to listen, Jay had to stop him from falling onto the -.

“Had to be him,” Jo whispered, moving to the doorway and glancing at the other room the further side of the landing. Although he couldn’t hear any laughing. Unless Jay was waiting for a shout of ‘Who in all the Patchwork turned over my radio?’ Which Jo had done upon finding it on its side or upside down from time to time.

But not a jot. Not a sound. Only the voice coming from the speakers, which made adults drift off in the sunlight, never mind children.

“It’s been a while, Hans. How are things?”

“Ansel, Travernsi. Hansel without the A,” a second, softer voice replied.

Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

“After an artist?”

“Preferable to a fairy tale.”

Jo yawned. A caller even more deadpan than the host. Plus a name that veered close to a great master from elsewhere. There must be a flock of them on that social space Jay had to be pulled away from. Not under their duvets or drifting off to sleep; but on the nocturnal conversation waves with unique tones of half-sleepiness.

“So Ansel. What’s tonight’s topic for the Big Ear?”

“Weariness,” came the reply, making Jo reach for the handset. “What should I do?”

“Get some more sleep,” Travernsi grinned to the sound of a drum-cymbal beat and applause. “No, you’re right, Ansel. It’s getting towards the small hours when eyelids get heavier.”

“Kind of apology accepted,” said Ansel, even as Jo’s fingers hovered, but did not connect with, the preset-shift button. “But it’s more the opposite for me at moonrise.”

“Ah, so you’re one of the star-gazing owls,” said Travernsi. “Up all night and off to bed at sunrise?”

“On the right track. But I fight the weariness to see beyond the sunrise now and then.”

“So the topic is: ‘Do we need more sleep whether Night Owls or Early Birds?’”

“For another time,” said Ansel, as Jo still couldn’t understand why he hadn’t pressed the button. “Instead, my proposal is: ‘What should I do’.”

“Oh come on, Ans, you know that’s not fun. I can’t give pointers; I wind up in arguments.”

“Makes your listeners go to sleep with a smile on their face. But as a token of no hard feelings over you calling me by that - name - I will give one or two pointers.”

“Make it the first three out of six and you’re on.”

“Done.”

“Goodness, just call it half,” said Jo, putting the remote back on the table as he settled down on the stitchwork longer.

“Might have to check on the callers, though,” Travernsi continued. “They were all primed up to ask you questions on your latest verses.”

“Few pierce the veils of mist,” said Ansel. “Save this, although I may well have mentioned it before:

What will I say,

What can be done,

The Hours Fall,

With the Rise of the Sun,

The Fold reign supreme,

On the sextet throne,

Who will you call to?

Who will you cry to?

The Wild Hunt King,

Or The Thousand Queen,

Who will you call to?

Who will you cry to?

“You’ve said, or sung this before,” Travernsi began. “But not with the guitar.”

The instrument was no longer playing through the speakers. Yet Jo could still hear it within mind and heart. A quick, one-two-three-four-five; one-two-three-four-five in time to the words that seemed level, yet had a - vastness - to them.

“It goes away for a time; yet in the small hours, returns,” said Ansel. “I should write it down, but this piece seems to lie within. A gentle flame that dims yet does not go out.”

“It’s as I feared,” said Travernsi. “The callers want to speak about your would-be songs. Wait, I’m getting a message,” he said as Jo was about to reach for the remote again. “One caller is prepared to switch.”

“Sounds like they have one or two conditions,” said Ansel.

“Nothing that the team can’t sort out. Now, let me welcome our first caller: Tarquin.