One may recall the thrilling conclusion of our previous story, [4] promising more adventures of Miss Lightning Merriemouse-Jones, and so, we are happy to provide such a story here. We have the means at our disposal to entertain our readers for some time to come, for when Belle was approximately eight years old (she is nearly ten as we write this), we discovered an object of great fascination on the porch of our home. It was so tiny and brown that at first I, Nancy, sans my spectacles, thought it was some sort of bug. But Belle, being keener-eyed and quite knowledgeable in the study of insects, declared it was no bug at all. [5]
She was quite correct: it was a tiny catgut notebook, labeled THE PRIVATE JOURNAL OF LIGHTNING MERRIEMOUSE-JONES. Imagine our delight! It is from this volume that we drew the material for our first story, and now do so again for our second. We happen to believe that it was deliberately left for us to read, and we have now accepted the commission to play scribe to this exceptional mammalian adventuress. The JOURNAL is filled with diary entries detailing her many deeds of derring-do, which pose some questions that we have yet to answer. Specifically, it appears that Our Heroine possessed (and perhaps possesses still!) some method of time-travel bequeathed upon her by her raternal uncle, Cheddrick Merriemouse-Jones. He was in his day either an innovative genius of the first water or a crackpot, depending upon whom one asks. He lived in the small English village of Stilton-Upon-Rye… and seems never to have died.
We mention this before commencing our actual story because you will see that our narrative opens in 1940, when Lightning should have been sixty years old, as she was born in 1880. And yet, in this tale, she is still a young, unmarried maiden as fresh as Devonshire cream. Indeed, as we began working, we were quite puzzled, and at first we thought the hero of the story was actually Cyclone Merriemouse-Jones, supposed to be a descendant of Lightning’s, who is buried in the quaint and lovely churchyard in the village of Neufchâtel.
Bewildered, we determined to read the entire journal before we commenced this story, and approximately halfway in we read a trio of entries concerning an invention of her uncle Cheddrick’s: a purplish-green taxi cab, which periodically arrived for Lightning at the exact instant that she presented herself at the heavenly Gates, in hopes of that final reward for which all good Christians yearn. It seems to have been the very conveyance by which Cheddrick himself evaded the Scythe of Time that cuts us all down-king or knave, queen or scullery maid-with the possible except of Lightning and her uncle. In other words, we believe that Lightning and Cheddrick both may be actual time-travelers! [6]
When we have fully digested the complexities of Lightning’s discourse on the subject, we will happily share them with you, our Devoted Reader. For the nonce, suffice to say that despite the seeming contradiction in time periods, the heroine of this story is indeed Lightning, as a young lady.
Thus assured, please read on, and enjoy “Another Exciting Adventure of Lightning Merriemouse-Jones” (including, as was the case in our previous work, annotations from Miss Belle Holder.)
With great respect, and deep affection, Belle and Nancy Holder, fille et mère
25 September, 1940, London Town
They call it the Blitz! In the language of our Enemies, that translates as “Lightning,” just like my name! And it is very like lightning, this nightly barrage of explosives loosed upon poor, dear London. Herr “Furrer” Adolph Ratler, who is surely the most evil creature ever to run the wheel of Life, has dropped bombs for over a fortnight on the beautiful warrens and mazes of the very seat of Civilization. His hellspawn minions, the bloodthirsty Katzies, fly in a parade behind a sinister black aeroplane unmarked save for what we assume is a registration number: 070617. No one knows who the pilot is, but he is merciless, shedding bomb after bomb upon the helpless populace as if it is his life’s work. And so it is; many lie dying, or dead, and no one is spared, be he King Rat or common field mouse. Some say that the war will end when the pilot of the black aeroplane is killed. But others say that this unholy war will never end.
As for me, I count myself as the recipient of great personal tragedy. I am bereft. I have hastened to find my family’s London mousehole a ruin. Nothing can be saved-not the beautiful pianoforte in the drawing room, nor the exquisite tea service Mr. Dormouse presented my dear Mama in the halcyon days following my deliverance from the evil Count and Countess Dracurat. All appears to be gone, lost to enmity and flame. I shall dig through the debris with a heavy yet hopeful heart, on the off chance that something remains of my family’s precious mementoes.
Hark! On the radio, we are warned to remain indoors! The brown-pelted Katzenjammers have landed at the White Cliffs of Dover! I hear their jackboots on the pavement outside! We are undone!
26 September, 1940
As I cower in my family’s destroyed mousehole, I have found something! It is an olive-green metallic trunk, which was stowed beneath the attic eaves next to the chimney. It appears that when the bombs hit, the bricks tumbled in such a way as to create a protective wall over the trunk, not unlike a Sumerian corbelled arch, and so it was untouched. I have cleared a space such that I may drag it out and am now endeavoring to open it. Fingers crossed that something of value lies within-nay, not of financial value, but which may bring some measure of happiness to poor, wretched Lightning!
And so it did, Dear Reader. Let us describe for you in these next few pages what she indeed found, rather than put you to the task of deciphering more of her journal entries. For alas, there was another stupefying Blitz attack, and a battle in the streets between the Katzenjammers and various English ratriots-those deemed too old to go to war, but nevertheless eager to protect their kith and kin. Amidst the chaos, it took our brilliant but pressured young lady some time to discern what exactly she had found inside the trunk, and by what means she should employ it. We hesitate to publicize that her immediate entries after the above couplet became a bit rambling; and those further on might stir pangs of utter disbelief and incomprehension. There too, as we are cognizant of the many demands placed upon our readers’ time and attention, we ourselves shall attempt to summarize precisely what next occurred.
You may recall from your studies in school that the Great War, known also as World War One (1914- 1918), was believed at the time to be the war that would end all wars. It was also a time of quite colorful personages, including the World War I Flying Ace, Count Orloff von Limburger, known far and wide as the Bloody Rat Baron. He won at least eighty air combats and was so beloved by his people that he was asked to retire rather than continue to fight, but he refused.
Von Limburger sustained a serious head wound on July 6, 1917, and was ever after much changed. He became distant, unemotional, and utterly devoid of humor. It was whispered that he was himself no longer, but a phantom. This caused joy among his own forces, but dismay among the Allies-for who could kill a ghost?
Yet he was killed… or so it was asserted… on April 21, 1918, from a lone.303 bullet (that is to say, from a Vickers-Maxim machine gun.) It has never been conclusively proven who exactly killed the Bloody Rat Baron, although credit was given to a Canadian named Brown. However, in Miss Lightning’s family, the author of von Limburger’s demise was firmly believed to be Edam (“Eddie”) Merriemouse-Jones, whose plane went down in the wilds of Gouda shortly thereafter and who was never seen again.
[4] To wit: “But do remember this, Gentle Reader: Lightning Merriemouse-Jones was destined for greatness.”
[5] · When Belle was five years old, an approaching woman came to a dead stop approximately two feet in front of her. The lady’s eyes widened with admiration, and she bent down to address Belle in that singsong voice which some adults use when addressing children:
“Oh!” she said. “You are such a beautiful little girl! Look at those big blue eyes! Have you ever thought of becoming a fashion model when you grow up?”
Whereupon Belle replied, “Actually, I would like to be an entomologist.”