For the second time in a night Ellen found herself in her own kitchen with Mister Trout, who may or may not be "Alvin," eating food she never knew she had; all of it better prepared than she could ever have done herself. This time, however, she lost most of what Mister Trout was saying as she stared in disbelief at the petite man now sitting across from her.

  Aside from the excitement they had all experienced an hour or so passed, she would swear he was familiar. She didn't know from where, but Ellen knew she had met him before. It was disconcerting.

  This was fine for the most part as they spoke rapidly in a language she had never before heard. Every once in a while she thought it might be somewhat like Gaelic, but if it was one of the Gaelic languages, it was one that had escaped Ellen’s notice until this now very early morning. Dimmit Jim, I’m a nurse not a linguist! It must have been a lack of sleep that caused her giggles to occasionally erupt while the two diminutive men spoke. I haven’t thought about that old show in ages…I don’t think I’ve watched the celestra in more than a year…I should just cancel my various streams…

  With as sigh, as they chattered at each other in a fluid sounding language at high speed, she took out her old datpad; it was ten years old, battered, a lurid red color, and from what she could tell it had better processing speed and memory than anything newer on the market. With a few taps, and a quick fingerstick that didn't even draw a big enough drop of blood to leave a noticeable drop on the tip of her middle finger, she began calling up her various streaming accounts to close them out. Many of the accounts, beyond the standard password rigamarole, were DNA/mRNA locked, and the little embedded oval on the right side of the datpad had a finger-stick recess that Ellen remembered paying an extra fee to get the upgraded, self sterilizing, cleaning feature.

  After a few minutes, she looked up at the conversation to see it still well underway.

  The man she had been calling Banner, if only in her thoughts, was completely unburned and scarless, in spite of what Alvin had told her about this man being the famous "John Doe" in the burn unit. She could see his face in her mind as she saw it at work yesterday, puckered; scabbed, and bandaged; but the reality before her was of a man in his late thirties to early forties, who had looked to have never in his life even nicked himself badly while shaving.

  Though, he did have a fine, curly, closely cropped beard that matched the length of the curly, ruddy hair on his head. Warm tan, almost olive, skin unmarred in even the slightest way graced the face of this new guest in her home. She had never before noticed just how pronounced was his brow while he had been lying in bed, or when his bandages where being changed and his skin cleaned. Thick ridges of bone and muscle above each eye leant a darker cast to his face, though not unkindly; if anything, Banner was more ruggedly handsome than Ellen had ever imagined. Hooded hazel eyes, sometime almost green, other times almost a honey golden yellow color, the man now sat across from her in her home, and though she saw him most every day for the last year or more, Ellen did not actually know him. In the well lighted kitchen she confirmed that his hair, what little was left to him, was a shade too auburn to call brown, and too dark to call auburn.

  I’m sure Miss Peach would have a name for that color, thinking of the little woman she had begun patronizing two years ago when her deep reds started to sprout silver threads... Stay on task, Ellen…

  “Don’t mean to be rude, gentlemen, but I really would like to know what you two are going on about.”

  Mister Trout gave Ellen a startled look. It was obvious to her that the little man, perhaps BOTH little men had forgotten her completely until she spoke. “I’m sorry, Nurse Lindsey. I’m just getting caught up here myself, and I think your guest, Mister ….” and at that moment, Mister Trout said a word or a name that had no meaning that she could tell. She almost thought he had called the deadly little man in front of her “Mister Tinkle;” but that was out of the question.

  “What did you call him? Jinkle? Tinkle? Jingle?”

  “No dear,” he said around a grin. ”’Tj’Chin’Ker.” He tried enunciating for her,

  ”Tach-j'IN-Kuurrrr.” If Trout’s R’s rolled any harder they would never be found. “I don’t think he really cares what we call him. He doesn’t seem nearly as formal as the books I’ve read make out his kind to be. You might call him Mister Tj’Chin’Ker, His idea of a last name isn’t what you might call a proper name; Tinker would be the closest I could come to something you might recognize.” His face split itself trying to grin just wide enough to show how funny he thought this might be. “Yes, I guess “Mister Tinker” would do nicely.” He began chortling to himself over what he must have assumed was wit.

  Suddenly the newest guest in her kitchen began a rapid fire litany of syllables too fast for Ellen to follow while he glared at Trout. His voice, a velvet honeyed blanket closing in around her, began to pick up a rhythm all its own as his words flowed over and around her. The cadence of the song was like a waltz, with “meq dje,” “mavtah dje,” and “avtah dje” making up the counter points of the song. If anything it sounded to Nurse Lindsey like a calling song. But she had never heard of a single person singing both parts of a calling song; or even being able to for that matter. But here he was, so what did she really know? And this calling song seemed to have three parts, all written for the deeper tenor ranges.

  The cadence of his words were small vibrations in her chest, the hard start of each third syllable jarring her sternum, while the rest flowed about and through her, caressing away cares and singing of the safety of a warm room somewhere in her memories with cozy blankets and the sound of children playing just outside the window. Ellen could almost taste the syrupy sweet hot toddies her Gran used to make while they sat in the den eating too many cookies and talking about nothing. This song, whatever it was, carried the better parts of family. Taking a deep breath brought Ellen closer to her beloved Gran than any photo album she had perused since her Gran’s death so many years ago in Stirling, near the ruins of Boddam Castle.

  Each breath he took as he sung the litany rolled across the dusty forgotten coves in her mind to sigh in corners over the neglected images of her Grandfather. Tall, austere, and every bit the proper Englishman, though he had been born and raised in the Highlands. As a child Ellen though his accent affected, and if any had cared to ask, silly. He too had gone as all must go, and left this world with sad smile on his lips and family at his side. The frailty that stole his words at the finish of his life couldn’t keep the love for those around him from his eyes. The former patient, who she had called Banner in her private moments, increased his pace, and more familial moments assailed her. The wooden chair Ellen sat in seemed a pitiful thing to hold the memories of all of her relations as she hunkered in her kitchen feeling both joys for those she now missed and sorrows for the thousands of little bits of her history she had let slide away from her daily thoughts, and the volumes she had never known.

A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

  “Now look, I’ve gotten him on a roll,” the interruption from Trout was as jarring as he was tired; “he’s all about going through his family history. Probably back past the last great Ice Age... ” Ellen blinked for a few small moments as that was the extent of what she thought she could do.

  Then in a low and brittle voice, she asked, “How far back? I mean, how many generations could he go like this?”

  Squinting slightly, Trout managed a thoughtful look and said, “All the way, give or take an ancestor…all of them in his direct line.” His brows shot together as he listened to the litany, “He might go and do all of them, though, direct and otherwise; I don’t doubt he could. Have some squab; it’s quite good with the greenish mustard.”

  “Don’t you know? Aren’t you listening to what he’s saying? And when did I every buy squab?” She then looked down at the stringy remains of a bit of poultry left on a plate by Banner and Alvin. “No. I’ve lost track.” A grin jumped to the fore of his thoughts, “Can’t really be bothered to tell the truth. Maybe I have the AD-HDTV stuff.” He grinned wickedly at her as he said it. “You do know I’m not really a hypochondriac? Yes? No? I just needed to see this fellow, find out what he was about.” A pause as Alvin thought, “I think he brought the squab. I just cooked it. But, really, it’s great. Very tender. Try it.”

  Ellen’s coppery brows rammed one another in her attempt to look stern. “Does he care that you don’t care what he’s saying or that I don’t understand? And where did he get a tiny game hen like this? I don’t remember a shopping trip on the way home.” That brought Trout up short. Well, shorter… the little, niggling, petty part of Nurse Lindsey thought as a look of surprised happiness ran around the edges of the diminutive man’s face.

  A quick exchange took place as Mister Trout interrupted the ancestral litany erupting beautifully from her newest guest. “Forgive me. Is fioa nu chel H’A’Ille bochso…” A quirk of the lips and creasing of his brow let her know he knew his mistake. Sorry, I know you don’t speak my song, but some manners are hard learned, and harder to forgotten.” Mister Tinker’s hazel eyes caught Ellen, deer in the headlamps. Flecks of gold and green warred in those orbs as he looked soulfully at the tall woman in whose kitchen he now sat; it was a painfully early morning, they could see she had had enough. “It is rude of we to speak in tongues you do not ken. Try the bird, it is good. Fresh. I caught it this morning.”

  “The word you wanted was “Us,” and you’re right. It was rude of ‘us.’” Alvin sounded every bit as contrite as did Mister Tinker; though Ellen had to admit she had no interest in reaching across the table to kiss the smaller of her two guests as she did Mister Tinker. A flush slowly crawled from hiding somewhere in Ellen’s blouse before making a dash for her hairline at the randy thoughts intruding. “Rude, that is…we were being…oh, here I go talking backwards. Short people should avoid it if only to stop the Yoda jokes.”

  Banner gave Trout…Alvin…a confused look and said “Yoda” slowly while reaching across the table to grab a morsel of what was clearly one of the two smallest game hens Ellen had ever set eyes upon, Trout shot off another rumbling sentence at him from behind the door of the ice box while she nervously nibbled at the other bird.

  When Banner said what sounded to her ears as “Shave!” Trout appeared back at the table with a pair of lagers. …and when did I last buy beer...? An old mate from school had a boyfriend who would always posit that there were always an extra lager or two behind the oldest leftovers in the box. He was a dolt of the first degree, and Ellen was quite happy to remember turning him down on several of his offers at dinner. They must have been something else Mister Tinker or Mister Trout had brought with them.

  Clearing her throat, Ellen decided to get the conversation moving in a more productive direction. “What are we up to now? What do we do now that you’re out of hospital, and we have several dead bodies the police will be asking questions about? And the Cab? You remember that, right?” Her angry gaze took in Trout. “The one you parked in front of my flat? Yes? Dead man in the boot? Ring any bells? Its right outside, you can see it from my window. I can’t help but think that might stand out to the constabulary.”

  Trout looked from Ellen to Banner, then to the ceiling. She thought he might be thinking of how to answer her questions. But nothing was forthcoming from the little man. The pause she allowed him seemed to stretch out of its own accord; growing until Ellen thought the popping and grinding of her jaw might deafen her. Though, she had nebulous hopes that a tooth might chip, and a rogue shard would kill the most annoying man she knew on this the worst night of her life; but that would leave another body.

  “So? Where did you get the beer? I can’t remember the last time I picked up any.” Banner looked down at his bottle, drew his brows tight to his eyes and spoke rapid fire to Trout in tones suddenly reminiscent of Barry White. The small man then laughed uproariously, and turned to Ellen to say “He said, “There’s always a forgotten ale or two behind the leftovers.”“

  “WHAT? No, really? I find that one hard to swallow. You did NOT just say that!” She looked at the fridge in confusion.

  “Actually, the exact phrasing was more to the tune of “The carcass going green in the back of your cold house usually hides a forgotten keg.” But I think its close enough.” Her giggling fit returned with friends of the snorting kind to make her more embarrassed, which was a nice change from the dangerously off balance feeling she had been visited by all night.

  Slowly sobering, Ellen tried a new track, and was gratified to hear Banner chime in at almost the same moment. “What I guess I’m really asking is; where do we go from here?” she managed to ask in slow and metered tones, if not pleasant ones, Banner’s deep rich tones supporting her own like mercury floating a wrench.

  Still gazing up to the ceiling, the rumble of Mister Trout’s voice caught her slightly off guard. Or maybe it was what he said; she couldn’t have heard him right. At least not all of what he said, but the gist was…

  “Oh, we're going to America.” He slowly repeated, enunciating for her benefit this time around. "My employer would like a word with our man here, and for everyone's safety, a pad-call won't do."