For some reason, Martin slept better on the long plane ride to Britain than he had in his own bed. Something about the duration, the dim lights, the sounds of cutting through the sky lulled him thoroughly, and dispelled his recently unrelenting condition of restlessness. He was out within ten minutes of takeoff, and woke only twice from then on: the first time was in a cold sweat - the way the chair was reclined conjured an unwanted memory in his dreams - and while he couldn't see all too well, he could tell Chris was curled up in as tight a ball as he could be within the seat's restraints, facing Martin, with his head just touching the edge of Martin's seat. It was comforting, and Martin fell right back asleep. The second time he woke he woke for good. This time Chris was responsible, he was frantically poking Martin's arm.

"Martin! Martin, they're serving out breakfast." Chris said, though his wide eyes made it seem like he had woken Martin to tell him the plane was on fire. Martin blinked blearily and stretched. The attendants handing out breakfast had just started, and were all the way at the front of the plane, whereas Martin, Chris and Shikaar were well towards the back.

"Chill out, we have a while," commented Shikaar, who had removed her headphones to hear what Chris' commotion was all about.

But Martin sat up anyways, because they were landing soon, and breakfast was even sooner, so there was no point in trying to get more sleep.

"So, uh, how was the flight for you?" Martin was compelled to say after they had left the plane, and were crossing the ramped, white hallways towards customs. This was how he had decided to check in on Chris, and make sure he was alright.

"What, you think I haven't flown before? I took a plane to get to you guys, you know." Shikaar glowered.

"What? No, that's not what I-"

"I mean, it was kinda nice traveling with white people."

Martin slouched forward uncomfortably, which made his stride stagger. "What?" He asked.

"Security gave me a hard time when it was just me. I guess they thought I was a terrorist or something." She brushed her hair out of her face.

"Oh, you just gotta ignore guys like that," Martin said flimsily.

She shot him a sour look. "It's airport security. You try ignoring them."

Martin bit his cheek and straightened his back, dropping the subject. Chris, the whole time, had been silent.

"How was it for you, Chris?" Martin asked.

"Fine," Chris said, clearly lying, clearly exhausted. "I didn't sleep a wink though."

This saddened Martin. When he saw Chris curled up like that he assumed he was asleep, not trying and failing to. It made a bit of sense, since Chris was never really able to sleep on planes before, but it did cause him to wonder why Chris had assumed such a curled-up, tense position if he was either trying to relax and rest or had given up on doing so.

But Martin had to drop the thought, because the time came for them to navigate the airport and their subsequent means of transportation.

The train ride they took was even longer than the flight - 15 hours in total - so Chris had ample time to make up lost rest, but he did not use it. Instead, noticing that Shikaar could not hear anything whatsoever through her headphones, and was engrossed in a magazine, he grabbed Martin by the shoulder and reeled him in slightly.

"Martin, what do you know about Dr. Tendua?"

"What?"

"I tried doing research on him to know what we're getting into, but all I could find was that he's a normal zoologist who did normal research. Didn't really find anything useful in his essay 'Eudynamys Scolopaceus's Unique Frugivorous Diet in Comparison to Other Specimens of Cuculiformes and How it Affects its Role in the Indian Ecosystem as a Brood Parasite.' Yes, that was the actual title of the essay, and yes, all his essays are like that."

"Woof."

"Not much character insight in there, aside from his horrid lack of concision, but from what little I remember that wasn't exactly a problem with him in person."

"Yeah, not really."

Chris leaned against the tray table of the cabin, accidentally scotching his elbow against the plastic cup that was sitting there, causing the tonic in it to slosh out. "So, what actually was his deal?" Chris asked, wiping his elbow off onto his pants, then replacing it on the table, this time a cautious inch from the cup. "I remember you told me about him, but... that was my freshman year in college, and I felt super swamped, so I only held on to the exciting parts of that story."

"What do you want to know?" Martin asked, unsure of what Chris classified as exciting.

"Like, where did he come from? How did you meet him? Why did he do what he did?"

Martin lip trilled. "He was a colleague of one of my professors at Duke. They're the one who contacted me, actually, saying they had a friend in India who needed help on a small research project. When I looked at Tendua's data, the situation seemed more dire than how my professor made it come across, so I called Tendua at once, arranged the trip and met him there."

"Wow." Chris said. "Hasty."

"I was young and reckless." Martin sighed, folding his arms and leaning back into his chair.

"Younger and more reckless, more like," Chris chuckled.

"I'm not proud of it, but I wanted to help the leopards."

"And you did."

"So did he," Martin pointed out. Chris raised an eyebrow.

"I don't buy that."

Martin swiveled slightly to face Chris. "Why not? He pulled me in for a reason, his research project was a cry for help. He shot Vincent Bruce after all, didn't he?"

"I dunno, his plan just seemed really convoluted. I can't make sense of it."

Martin rolled back away. "He was really scared of Bruce, or, whoever else he was working with. He never told me anything about this Odyssia, so I reckon he was even more scared of them. Besides, there's one character trait you should've picked up on from those long-ass essay titles."

Chris cocked his head slightly. "What?"

"He's an over-thinker. Gets in his own head, to the point where he can't see the most obvious solutions." Martin glanced at Chris teasingly from the corner of his eye. "Reminds me of someone I know."

In a huff, Chris plopped back down into his seat.

.

.

.

The closest they could get to Píosaí by train was a town called Ullapool. From there, they had to hire a driver to take them through the winding roads along the moor.

It was dark and foggy, but not like any dark and foggy Martin had ever experienced. The only thing you could see out the front windshield was a small half-circle of silver along the bottom, where the headlights met the road before dissipating into the all-encompassing unanimous grey. It was even more nerve-wracking to drive along the left side of the road, being in Britain and all - there were many times when his heart almost leapt from his chest because he thought they were going to go off the road or crash into an oncoming vehicle, but it always turned out to be an illusion of perspective and obscurity. When they did finally reach the town Martin only caught glimpses of things, edges, dark outlines, like geometric phantoms warping in and out of the thick veil. Martin knew they were probably mundane things - lampposts, street signs, building corners - but the inability to see them fully made Martin dread whatever might be found should the veil be lifted, and the face of the city be truly revealed.

For a moment it had seemed like they'd passed the town. All mysterious forms had ceased teasing out their borders, as if they were actual ghosts who had decided to finally hide away into the night, and let the observer's own imagination torment him as he navigated the void. The road became a dirt one, and both Martin and Chris clung to their armrests at the grinding of the gravel beneath them, and then - they stopped, seemingly arriving nowhere.

"This is it," said the driver, who for the whole rest of the drive had said nothing.

They all timidly slunk from the car. Martin was hit with a wall of wet and cold; fog was so thick that it instantly condensed on his face and in his nostrils. He wiped his forehead and water drops rolled off his hand. And still they could see nothing.

"Spooky," Martin said, feeling Chris nervously huddle up to him. They could see each other if they wanted to, but they instead looked around, their overactive minds making them fear that something dangerous and fantastical might leap at them from the fog.

"Good luck to ya, mates." Said the driver in his Scottish drawl, pulling their luggage out of the trunk. "No one hears from anyone who lives in this town. There're rumors that anyone who goes in never comes out."

Martin gulped, and Chris leaned into Martin's shoulder harder. Shikaar rocked nervously on her feet.

The driver laughed. "Ah! Here'a comes someone now." He pointed his finger up and into the fog. Everyone turned in that direction, their blood running cold.

Sure enough, a faint orange circle was approaching through the fog. As it grew closer, it became evident that it was light from a lantern, as it swung back and forth, and began to trace the edges of its forthcoming carrier.

"Must be the innkeeper." Chris shivered.

"Hey-oh! Are you the Kratts?" Came a voice from that emerging figure.

Martin flinched a bit. It was not the kind of voice he was expecting. It was light, cheerful, womanly, and weirdest of all, American, with a distinct southern touch to it.

"Yes!" Chris called, relaxing off of Martin's back, also perplexed by this unexpected character.

She came into view.

"Quite the weather for y'all to roll up in!" she chattered.

"You're not Scottish," was all Martin could say.

"Sharp y' are! Born and raised in Tennessee, I am, but man, I just couldn't resist this!" She gestured to the fog about her in a pause, and then laughed. Martin and Chris joined in, nervously.

"Looks like you Americans have eachother now, you won't be needin' me. So, if you will..." remarked the driver.

"Oh, yeah. Right," Chris said. He pulled himself aside to pay the man, while Martin continued to survey their new host.

She was a robust, maybe even somewhat rotund person, somewhere between her late 40s or late 50s, with voluminous, faintly ginger hair. She was dressed as if it were Sunday morning, with a pink floral blouse and matching dress skirt, a white cardigan over it, and white flats. Martin wondered how she was not cold, as he was bundled up in a hat and scarf and fleece jacket and was still shivering like a wet puppy.

She extended a meaty hand, and Martin took it to shake. She had a startlingly firm grasp that felt like it could've yanked Martin to the ground with little effort.

"Joann Walsh, pleased to make yer acquaintance!" She shook his hand vigorously.

"Martin Kratt, uh... hi." He was taken off guard by her energy in contrast with the somber surroundings.

"Oh, Martin, eh? The reservation was made under Chris! He must be the little one over there."

"Sorry?" Chris said, turning from the driver whom he had finished paying and who was getting back into his car.

"Oh, pay no mind, honey, ye'r cute as a pie!" She shook his hand too.

"...Thanks." He said slowly, unsure how to politely respond to the contumely.

"And Grace dear, look at you! I wasn't expecting you to come back!" Instead of shaking her hand, Joann gave the girl an enormous hug. Martin was expecting Shikaar to recoil or fight, but instead she practically melted into it.

"Wait, you two know eachother?" Chris asked.

"Course! Everybody who passes through this here town knows me, I'm like the momma hen." She giggled, releasing Shikaar. "Now, let's get y'all poor little things out of this fog, alrighty? Come on, now, come on!"

They followed her up a trail and through the black, her orange halo being their only guiding light.

Slowly, a house appeared from the dark. In the fog it looked formidable, malefic, ominous. It was old, made of wood and stone, and you could hear it creaking and groaning into the marsh.

Joann walked up the old sighing steps and through the door, and trepidatiously, the boys followed.

They passed through a small closed atrium that turned sharply and unreasonably to the right before coming into a small, crowded living room.

It was darkly and warmly lit, with dominating shades of brown and red and beige. There was no overhead light, only floor lamps and table lamps shaded with tinted glass or cloth canvas. There were about five different kinds of chairs, two sofas, and four coffee tables, all of which were draped with some kind of sheet or quilt or fringed fabric. The tables, along with the shelves of a large bookcase that covered the rest of the wall they had come in through, were adorned with various porcelain and metal antiques. There were about six clocks of different shapes and sizes, from a large grandfather clock to an ornate cuckoo clock to a small clock encased in cut crystal. Each of their ticks had a different pace and timbre, accompanying the quiet classical music which was coming from an old radio. There was, most conspicuously, taxidermy, and lots of it: ducks mounted on the wall, a Muntjac in the corner, a pheasant on the bookcase, and the head of a fallow deer upon the mantle of the room's centerpiece, a large stone fireplace. Also on the wall was an ornate hunting rifle, hung with enough reverence to suggest it alone had killed every animal in here. The brothers eyed it all uncomfortably, with Martin taking a particularly intense displeasure with the deer head.

Joann noticed. "Oh, don't tell me y'all are squeamish! It's okay, they can't do y'all no harm, they're dead."

"We're Zoologists," Chris said, bluntly.

Joann stared, mouth wordlessly agape, blinking deliberately for a time, before only uttering, "ah." She turned to look at the floor for nothing, as if somehow her sensibilities were the ones that had been offended.

A young man in a sweater-vest emerged from one of the other two doors into the room. He was handsome, with wavy sandy brown hair all brushed in swoops to one side, and a long square jaw.

"'The guests are here, eh Ma?" he said, sharing Joann's accent.

"This is my son Rodger," Joanne said, placing a hand on the young man's shoulder. He smiled the way Martin had observed most frat guys to smile - big yet shallow all the same, more like a grimace than anything. "Say," she said with a glint in her eye, "you boys are about the same age, aren't'cha?"

Chris and Martin glanced at each other, thinking roughly the same amused thought.

What, is she trying to arrange a playdate or something?

To their morbid delight, that wasn't too far from the truth.

"Rodger, why don't you get our guests something to drink? What do y'all want, coffee? Tea?"

Martin and Chris stammered over eachother.

"No, uh-"

"We're fine, really-"

"We're all good here-"

"It's late, so if you don't mind-"

"Oh, I see, I see, no worries." She smiled. "Y'all wanna get your beauty sleep if you wanna find this girly's father."

Shikaar started. "How did you... know about that?"

Joann rolled her shoulders casually. "I assumed it was why you'd be here! Such a curious thing it was, he - bless his heart - came back saying he saw a Scottish Wildcat in the moor, went out to look for it and didn't return!"

Everyone's jaws dropped.

"What." Shikaar said.

"Oh, is something wrong?" She asked innocently.

"He... told me he had left a personal item behind he needed to get back, not... go hunting for wild cats!"

"Oh, that is peculiar." Joann said.

Shikaar stared at the floor, furiously searching her mind. Why did he lie? Why did he leave? Why was I left behind?

"A Scottish Wildcat?" Martin exclaimed, cutting off Shikaar's troubled train of thought. "Here?"

Joann blinked. "Is that a big deal?" She asked.

"Uh, yeah!" Chris cut in. "Scottish Wildcats are, like, one of the most endangered animals there are, with only 100 or so individuals left in the wild, none of which are here!" He looked excitedly to Martin. "Or so we thought!"

"This could be a really big deal!" Martin replied.

"Still, it's nothing I'd leave my daughter behind for!" Said Joann.

But Shikaar had thought about it, and that was not what she was mad about. She would have been totally fine if she was left alone in the city while her father returned to his work - in fact, she'd be glad for it! She would get time back in the place she'd come to love, and he might finally be relieved from those self-imposed manacles that barred him from pursuing his beloved natural world. It would've worked out best for the both of them.

So then, the question still was:

Why did he lie?

"Oh well, I'm sure y'all will sort this thing out! It's what you're here for, after all!" Joann continued, giving Shikaar a half-hug.

"Right! Of course!" Chris stammered, still awestruck at the revelation that they could be in the midst of one of the world's rarest creatures.

"Well then!" Joann clapped. "Get you off to bed now, since it's so late. Rodger, show them their rooms, if you would. I have some business to attend to."

Chris had made the reservation for their stay by phone, and whoever he talked to - which certainly wasn't Joann, or Rodger - told him that people come and go constantly, even without reservation, so the three could only be put in whatever "was available." Chris normally would have argued, or looked for something better, but this place was the only lodging in town, and the town itself was so remote, he could not find anything else within a reasonable distance. Chris could only hope for the best as they were led up the narrow, creaky, carpeted stairs and to their lodging. Turns out, they each had a room to themselves. Chris' room was right at the start of the also narrow, creaky, carpeted hallway, with Shikaar's being right next to his, but Martin's was the room furthest away, and on the opposite wall.

Interesting arrangement, Chris thought.

"Alright, we have two bathrooms on this floor and one downstairs, they lock from the inside. Breakfast starts at 7:00 AM and ends at 9:30 AM," Rodger handed them the keys.

"Hey, Shikaar, wanna switch rooms?" Martin asked.

"Yes." She said, glaring at Chris.

Rodger winced. "Oof, I wouldn't do that if I were you."

"What? Why not?" Martin asked.

"It's my mom, it's... it's not a big deal, really, she's just kinda got this thing about who stays in that room." He pointed at Martin's room. "My dad died in there."

"Oh." Martin shuddered slightly. "I'm sorry."

Rodger waved his hand. "Eh, it was a while ago, I really don't remember it. But anyways, she thinks his ghost haunts that room, so she doesn't wanna put girls or couples in there because she thinks it would be 'indecent.'"

"Oh." Martin said.

"I know, it's weird. But she's a sensitive woman, you know?"

"I mean... if that's what helps her grieve, then..." Martin said. He looked at Chris, who shrugged.

"Thanks for understanding, guys, I appreciate it." He winked. "Goodnight!" Rodger headed back down the stairs.

Shikaar chuckled indignantly. "Okay, grieving or no, I am not trading rooms with Martin. I don't mess with ghost stuff."

"I just don't believe in it." Chris said. "But I'll admit, this house feels creepy."

"Probably all the animal heads," Martin said, opening his room. "Oh thank god, there are none in mine."

"Lucky." Chris replied, after entering his room to discover a stuffed hare on his nightstand. "Yuck."

They spent a few minutes unloading their things.

Shikaar and Martin were less meticulous in their unpacking process, so they both funneled into Chris' room to discuss the plan for the morning.

"We'll ask around town. See if anyone knows anything." Said Chris, who was kneeling over his open suitcase. "If this place is as small and tight-knit as I think it is, I'll bet word travels fast."

"Works for me." Shikaar said. "I'm going to bed. I'll wake up at 8:00 AM or so. Bye." She retreated into her room.

"She's..." Chris started.

"She's a character." Martin said. "She'll warm up to you, I promise."

"She's somehow really direct and secretive all at the same time." Chris pulled a shirt out of his case.

"Yeah. Reminds me of her father."

"Which begs the question, is she trustworthy?" Chris asked.

Martin felt a chill go down his spine. He hadn't thought about it. Then again, he reassured himself, I don't need to.

"Come on, what would she even do?" Martin asked in a whisper, well aware that the walls in this old house were probably thin, and Shikaar was right next door. "What would she even have to gain?"

"I'll bet you asked yourself the same questions about Tendua."

Martin bit his lip. "Honestly, Chris, she's really harmless."

"Yeah, yeah, alright." Chris said. He pulled out a little phone he had bought to use while the Tortuga was being fixed and the Creature Pod systems were down. He frowned.

"What's wrong, bro?" Martin asked.

"There's no service here. There wasn't any for the last part of the drive. I was supposed to call mom when we made it safely, but I can't."

"Is it because we're abroad?" Martin asked. "I had heard somewhere that you have to get like a SIM card in another country for your phone to work."

"No, that's just to keep your rates from going up like crazy. I should still at least have service."

Martin shrugged. "This place's gotta have wifi."

"Lemme check." Chris tapped on the phone screen a few times. "Nope."

"No password-protected networks?"

"No networks at all." Chris said. "We're totally isolated. Might as well be in the middle of Kodiak. Only, we're in a regular old bed and breakfast."

"I wouldn't call this place regular." Martin scoffed.

Chris chuckled, rising to his feet. "So, what's your room like?"

"Pretty much like this." Martin said. "What you'd expect a grandma's house to look like if she was a serial killer."

Chris stifled a forceable laugh. "Right? Agh, I didn't want to say anything because I didn't want to be rude."

"Dude, I don't know if that scary-ass foggy drive is getting to me, but if she stabbed us in our sleep, I would not be surprised."

The two snickered with each other.

"Alright, man I gotta go to sleep, I'm pooped." Martin yawned.

"You go right ahead, I'm going to shower first."

"Do one of these bathrooms even have a shower?" Martin asked.

"One of them has to."

Martin grinned. "I mean, with all this rain and fog they probably don't need showers." He winked as his brother chuckled. "Alright, goodnight bro. Don't get murdered."

"You too." Chris said through a busy smile.

Chris was glad to see Martin like this, joking, beaming, enjoying life, unburdened by his lingering sorrows. It must have a potent positive influence, though, because once Chris found himself alone, his morbid humor escalated to genuine terror, heightened when he found the bathroom with the shower, and picked up on a pungent stench of raw and rotten meat.

Good god, what have we gotten ourselves into?

And the thought remained with him throughout the night.