According to the statistics stated in the Police Records Bureau’s 2026 report of ‘Burglaries and Home Invasions Nationwide,’ the vast majority of offenses happen on a Friday night. Tonight was no exception. Tonight was a Friday.
Apparently, the bureau had never processed a "break-in" involving a Scottish thespian spider in a tartan kilt and a grass snake with a lisp that could recite the Sonnets by heart, so the odds of success were not known. There was no chance for a trial run, and any preparations for breaking into an unknown college in the dark of night would have been pointless. It was a simple case of trial and error.
Thaddeus McTweedy, the Scottish thespian spider, and his accomplice in crime, Ssizle, the grass snake with an excellent knowledge of Shakespeare and Elizabethan English literature, made their way stealthily through the park toward the college campus.
The wrought-iron gates of Elmwood Community College loomed large against the moonless sky. Beyond them, the campus was a silent labyrinth of red-brick buildings and manicured lawns that had long since surrendered their green to the drained, swarthy umber stains of an October night. It was uncertain as to whether the gates were meant to keep people in or keep people out, but they were not people and, therefore, the gates were an easy obstacle to overcome.
The pair crawled effortlessly underneath. A low mist, thick with the smell of damp earth and river water, crept across the tarmac, swirling eerily around the base of a bronze statue—a statue dedicated to the college founder, Abraham Grealish.
"Keep to the shadows, Ssizle!" Thaddeus whispered, his kilt rustling softly as he skittered along the stone ledge of the steps leading to the Humanities Building.
Ssizle didn't respond with words; he was too busy being a shadow. His long, slender body rippled effortlessly through the blades of frost-tipped grass, his scales making a sound too quiet for even Thaddeus to hear. They navigated their way toward the parking lot with ease, ducking behind the massive, rubbery tires of a parked maintenance truck while assessing the best way into the building; so far so good.
The Science and Technology Wing stood before them, a rectangular monolith of glass and steel that looked as if it had been dropped into the campus recently—a sharp and unimaginative contrast to the century-old brick and corniced buildings that formed the rest of the college.
"There," Thaddeus signaled, pointing a front leg toward a side entrance door. It was perfectly situated at ground level, and the distressed paintwork around the frame looked weathered and warped. “There is bound to be a hole small enough that I can crawl through. Wait until you hear the door click, then follow me over."
Ssizle coiled himself into a tight, muscular spring against the brickwork. Seconds later, he heard the lock click—a sharp, metallic sound that felt like a gunshot in the stillness—and the door eased open just enough for him to slither through. Ssizle moved quickly, following Thaddeus into the building.
The cold floor of the corridor felt unnaturally smooth and cold. Even in the dark, they could see its shine, having been buffed nightly for some unknown reason that no one had ever fathomed. The atmosphere inside was different; the air was recycled and thin, knocking with the invisible heartbeat of time and the remnants of the thousands of souls that had walked the slippery passages.
The hallway stretched out before them, a long, sterile tunnel of lockers and locked wooden doors. The only light came from the red "Exit" signs, which cast a crimson, blood-like glow over the floor, making Ssizle look like a ruby serpent as he glided forward.
They moved past the darkened classrooms, eventually reaching the doors to the computer lab. It was locked, but there was enough of a gap for them to slide underneath, which they did without hesitation. The room opened up before them: a line of dead monitors and glowing standby lights blinking like a graveyard of sleeping giants, just waiting for the spark of life.
Thaddeus scrambled up the side of the main terminal, his many eyes reflecting the blinking green lights. ‘Right then,’ he thought to himself, ‘let’s wake up the ghost in this machine and get to work!’
"Keep your eyes peeled, Ssizle, laddie," Thaddeus whispered, his six legs tapping a nervous, rhythmic beat along the keyboard, the monitor flashing in response to his commands.
Ssizle flicked his tail as he crawled in front of the glowing monitor. "I hope the information iss here,” he answered. “Aruna ssaid the VIN number wass the key. If B-Gray iss out there, thiss glowing box sshall be our looking-glasss."
Thaddeus peered at the screen, having entered the details into the DMV database, his eyes reflecting the blue light. "Aye, let’s see if we can trace the lineage of this V1 Beetle. It’s time for the digital curtain to rise!"
Outside, the sound of heavy jingling keys echoed along the hallway. The sudden sound appeared out of nowhere and grew louder so quickly that it was too late to turn off the monitor. Thaddeus and Ssizle froze, hearing its rapid approach.
“It must be the custodian,” whispered Thaddeus. “Hopefully he will walk on by, but just in case, I have a plan. If the door should open, we have but one option. When I tap your tail twice, I want you to rise up to your full height and puff up as much as you can. Leave the rest to me.”
There was no time for Ssizle to question or object. The keys jangled all the way to the door, and then for a few brief seconds, all went quiet.
Outside of the door stood Newton Miller—a stout, middle-aged man who expected nothing but the dust and silence he had faced for the last twenty years of roaming the corridors. He stopped abruptly, evaluating the sliver of light from the monitor that spilled under the door. He eventually appeased his fear, convincing himself that someone had forgotten to turn off the equipment, and once his heartbeat had regulated back to a normal level, he reached for his keys.
Clack. Turn. Creak. The door opened slowly, and as he stepped in, trying to untie the flashlight from his work belt, he stuttered without thinking, “Who, who, who’s there?"
Thaddeus didn’t hesitate, tapping Ssizle's tail twice. Ssizle quickly uncoiled his midsection and rose nearly three feet off the desk. His head flared, silhouetted by the light from the monitor, projecting perfectly onto the far wall. Newton turned, his head flicking quickly in the direction of the movement in his peripheral vision to see a shadow almost ten feet tall. A monstrous, swaying cobra-like specter of a shadow. A shadow that stopped his breath, knotting it at the back of his throat as his lungs heaved frantically at the obstruction. He felt a cold wave rush over him, his skin prickling as a haggard voice echoed in the darkness...
"By the pricking of my thumbs, Something wicked this way comes! Open, locks, Whoever knocks!"
Thaddeus projected his voice with the deep, resonant tone of a graveyard bell.
"Maybe thou seek to disturb the silence of this sepulchral tomb? If not, then flee, mortal, before the shadows claim what is left of thy soul!"
A second later, without hesitation, the heavy door slammed shut again. Thaddeus and Ssizle listened as the frantic thudding of fleeing boots faded quickly down the stairs and into the background of the night. This was way beyond Newton Miller’s pay grade.
"A sstunning performance, Thaddeuss," Ssizle hissed, his tongue flickering with residual adrenaline. "I do believe that Macbeth, Act 4, Sscene 1 wass the perfect choice given the pressent circumsstancess.”
"Och, it was nothing but a bit of lighting and a loud voice, laddie," Thaddeus said, returning six legs back to the keyboard. "Though we’ve no time for curtain calls. That custodian will be back with the police, or a priest, or both. We need to work fast on finding our vintage friend."
Thaddeus’s legs flew across the keys like a frantic weaver at a loom. There was no way into the records of the DMV, so he navigated to a database for the National Vintage Vehicle Registry for Beetle owners. He checked the numbers on the crumpled paper Aruna had given him and entered them into the search bar.
REGISTRY MATCH FOUND: Model: Volkswagen Type 1 (V1) Color: Slate Gray (Original) Status: Active / Private Collection of John Pettinger. Last Known Location: The Old Ironwood Carriage House, Oakhaven Lane, Butte.
"Got it!" Thaddeus exclaimed, reaching for the 'Print' command with his front leg. "We have the location and the lineage. Now, let’s grab the printout from the printer and make our exit before we have to perform an encore for the local constabulary."
The monitor flicked off, and with a speed matching that of the fleeing custodian, they made their way out of the building and back into the dark of night. Mission accomplished.
Down in the valley, the farm was changing. It was over a month since the great, rustling sea of sweet corn had been harvested, leaving behind the rutted rows of stubbled stalks, now resembling the bristles of a giant’s hairbrush. The day had started with a temper—a sudden burst of hail that rattled against the garage door like the frantic knocking of tiny animals seeking shelter—but by the time B-Jay readied himself for the road, the sky had broken wide open. The storm had washed the air clean, leaving the furrowed fields littered with leftover graupel; graupel that melted into the dark, rich soil, tempting the stubbled stalks to join them as next harvest's fertilizer.
To the west, the Rocky Mountains stood firm, their snow-capped edges cutting into a sky that had turned a brilliant, polished sapphire; smooth yet fragile looking, as if it might shatter any moment. Outside the farm, the world was on fire. The aspens had turned a brilliant, vibrating gold, and the maples were bleeding crimson, their leaves dry and curled like tiny, discarded scrolls of parchment.
Inside his garage, B-Jay, the wonderful red Beetle car, sat perfectly still, his tires resting on the cool concrete. Through the high, dusty window, he watched a flurry of orange leaves dance across the driveway in a miniature whirlwind. The morning frost had etched delicate, fern-like patterns onto the glass, and as the sun climbed higher, the ice began to weep, sending long, clear beads of water trailing down the pane. Through the distorted ripples of the melting frost, the world outside looked blurred and ancient.
It was a time of endings—the end of the heat, the end of the harvest, and the end of the long days. But for B-Jay, this day felt like a beginning—the beginning of something as yet unknown.
B-Jay gave a soft, rhythmic throb of his engine. He felt the change in the season in his very chassis. The air was getting thinner, the nights were growing longer, and that "unscratchable itch" about his grandfather was becoming a dull ache. He looked at the old, sepia-toned photograph pinned to the workbench—the one of the slate-gray V1 Beetle with the dignified headlights.
"Where are you, Grandfather?" he hummed, a tiny puff of exhaust curling behind him like a question mark. It still plagued his dreams and, recently, his every waking moment. There was nothing else to occupy his mind in the garage, where he sat alone with his thoughts. He needed to take his mind away from the questions, and that meant visiting his friends at the cottonwood tree.
As B-Jay rolled out, the wet road reflected his ruby-red hood, and the scent of damp earth followed him like a sweet, coarse perfume. As he headed toward the cottonwood tree, he was unaware that waiting for him was a spider in a kilt and a snake with a love for sonnets. In their possession were the answers to the questions that plagued him. Answers printed on a crumpled piece of college stationery. The season of falling leaves was about to become the season of finding his roots.
He felt the graupel crunch under his tires as he made his way over the hill, negotiating his way through the weary landscape, and moments later, he was pulling up at the cottonwood tree.
As B-Jay approached his friends, he sensed something was going on. He knew his friends well enough after all the adventures they had shared to know when something was up. The fact that Thaddeus and Ssizle were there too made him all the more curious as to what it was they were discussing.
"Hey everyone," B-Jay exclaimed, giving his horn a little toot of apprehension as he pulled up next to them.
Zippo, the theatrical ant, was the first to respond. Unable to contain his excitement, he rushed over to B-Jay and started an animated mime, his arms and facial expressions gesticulating that the answer to today's riddle was a book, a film, and what seemed to be a very tiring journey up a steep hill.
Aruna the wise Great Horned Owl, spoke first. "What Zippo is trying to tell you, in his usual over-imaginative way, is that we have some news for you, B-Jay. It seems that Thaddeus and Ssizle have the location for the answers that you seek. We know the address for B-Gray."
"Wait, what, how—I mean, when? You do!" voiced B-Jay as his exhaust gave a nervous rattle. "How?"
"That's not important," replied Cressida, the proud black cat. "What is important is that you can now find the answers that you are looking for—the ones that we know keep you up at night. And we have decided to go with you—to support you." Her eyes blinked slowly as she waited for his response, her tail flicking slightly at the tip.
Zippo dropped to his knees, nodding profusely, his hands clasped in prayer. His eyes grew wide as he waited for B-Jay to say yes to their latest adventure.
“Where is it?” enquired B-Jay. “I mean, where exactly is B-Gray?”
“Butte,” replied Aruna with a click of his beak. “The Old Ironwood Carriage House on Oakhaven Lane, to be precise.”
"Butte? That’s beyond the Highland Pass, isn't it? That’s... that’s a real journey and quite a long one if I am not mistaken," B-Jay questioned.
"It is a pilgrimage," Aruna corrected, stretching out his wings with a quick flap.
“Adventure!” exclaimed Zippo, turning to Digger Bo, his eyebrows rapidly bouncing up and down with excitement. Digger Bo nodded in agreement, his stubbled chin creasing into a smile.
“Well, we had better leave soon if we are to get there before dark,” exclaimed B-Jay, revving his engine; the last of the frost melting on his hood as it warmed. He felt nervous but didn't wish to show it. It would, he reasoned with himself, put an end to the endless questions that continually plagued him about whether B-Gray really was his grandfather. It was a journey that would bring closure.
Minutes later, Maxwell, the rather large Saint Bernard dog, assumed his usual spot in the back next to Digger Bo, the tumbling badger. Aruna alighted to the headrest, and Cressida took her place on the front passenger seat. Zippo seated himself on the dashboard, Ssizle took refuge in the dark of the glove compartment, and Thaddeus contained himself with a single silver thread from the rearview mirror.
The journey to the outskirts of Elmwood lasted not thirty minutes before the terrain changed. The climb began almost immediately. The paved roads of Elmwood gave way to the Old Timber Trail, a winding ribbon of asphalt that clung to the side of the Rockies like a fraying thread. As they ascended, the vibrant gold of the valley began to thin, replaced by the dark, stoic green of ancient firs and blue spruce.
No one spoke for a while, each looking out at the landscape as it unfolded around them. It was a journey to places none of them had been before, and they were all caught up in the quiet contemplation of things—well, all except for Zippo, who was busy singing to himself.
“We’re off to see the wizard, the wonderful wizard of Oz!”
On one side, the mountain rose up in a wall of weeping granite, wet with the runoff of melting snow. On the other, the world simply dropped away. Through the twists and turns, they caught glimpses of the valley floor, now a patchwork quilt of burnt orange and copper, thousands of feet below.
As they ascended toward the Highland Pass, the air grew thin and colder, whistling through B-Jay’s side mirrors with a haunting, flute-like tone. Maxwell was not concerned by the cold of the breeze, his tongue flapping wildly as his cheeks flapped in the wind. The maples and aspens were gone now, replaced by tightly packed wind-twisted pines and spruces.
"‘The way is wearisome and steep,’" Thaddeus murmured, quoting a forgotten verse, "but the view, Ssizle... the view is truly majestic."
The next stage of their journey was through the treacherous Highland Pass—a gentler but more winding affair than the climb that had led to it. The road cambered to the left and to the right for many miles ahead, with sharp twists and turns that were tricky enough without the treacherous ice and snow that had claimed many a traveler through winters past. Scattered along the edges of the road lay the torn fragments of tires that had succumbed to the treachery that the Pass offered, marked by the weaving of the rubbery trails that ended in shattered glass shards that glinted in the sun—a warning of caution for those that followed.
As they glided through a canyon of shadow and stone, the rhythm of the road seemed to pull a hidden thread from Thaddeus’s memory as he dangled from the mirror, all eight legs flailing beneath his tartan kilt. As he observed the miles of terrain stretched out before them, he recounted his own similar journey as a young spider.
“This reminds me of when my family brought me to America,” Thaddeus began. "Aye, it was a long journey into the unknown and with it, hopefully, a better future. The journey was an arduous affair not for the faint hearted I can tell ye. The wind was howling like a banshee with a stubbed toe, and the waves were high enough to claim the very moon. There were many who were aboard the ship that brought us here from our harsh Scottish upbringing. Many sailed, but many perished along the way. The conditions were rough and turbulent from beginning to end—it was like enduring a badly written monologue—and for days we battled against the winds and the waves that sought to claim us to the deep. The deep is not merciful but voracious and hungry, and its cold, dark depths are never assuaged. I was lucky, though; my family was safely stored away in a storage trunk full of theatrical outfits. I believe it might have been 'Marina's Lute' that saved us. I found it tucked between a King's cape and a pair of woolen tights. I gave it a wee pluck—a G-sharp, if memory serves—and from that moment on, the sea let us pass in peace. Apparently, the Atlantic has a very refined ear for late-period Shakespeare. But it is not the journey that you need concern yourself with today, laddie. Aye, it is what lies ahead that is important. Or as Orestes said in the play 'The Eumenides,' 'Joy to you, joy in your change of place, and the riches of life that follow.' A wee bit more optimistic, don't you think, B-Jay?"
B-Jay tooted his horn, flicking his mirrors in agreement. He was too nervous to speak, his mind centered on the sign that read ‘Welcome to Butte – Richest Hill on Earth.'
As they crested the final ridge of the pass, the road straightened out, pointing like an arrow toward a secluded cluster of oaks in the distance. Somewhere down there, hidden in the shadows of the trees, a Slate Gray V1 Beetle was waiting. Digger Bo decided it was a good time to tumble. He had never tumbled in another State and he could feel the excitement inside the car rising. No one spoke much along the way – it wasn't an adventure for much in the way of conversation. It was more of a day for quiet contemplation.
As B-Jay rolled into the outskirts of Butte, the landscape took on a rugged, industrial gravity. This was a city built on the treasures hidden deep underground, and the "Richest Hill on Earth" stood tall against the October sky, scarred by decades of mining.
They turned off the main road and onto a narrow, cracked lane where the air smelled of old iron and cold mineral dust. At the very end of the street sat a weathered house that looked as if it were being slowly swallowed by the earth. The yard was a chaotic forest of dry tumbleweed and the skeletal remains of Black-Eyed Susans, but what caught B-Jay’s headlights were the coils.
“I believe we are here," stated Aruna – first to notice the sign saying ‘Oakhaven Lane'.
Hundreds of feet of thick, heavy copper cable lay tangled and twisted like coiled snakes. Scattered across the yard lay the remnants of the owner's long years in the deep shafts of the copper mines. The metal glinted with a dull, soulful glow in the afternoon sun, weaving in and out of the overgrown grass.
"There," shouted Zippo, suddenly, his keen eyes spotting a shape beneath a tattered, oil-stained tarp near the back of a sagging carriage house. “That looks very much like a carefully concealed B-Gray."
B-Jay approached slowly, his tires crunching on the gravel. No sooner had he stopped when everyone leaped from the car, heading eagerly toward the tarp. With a coordinated effort led by Aruna, each of them assigned to a corner of the thick, weathered covering, the tarp was pulled back to reveal a face from a dream. Finally, the truth was revealed. It was the face from the photograph. It was B-Gray.
The Slate Gray V1 Beetle looked like a forlorn, forgotten friend. His paint was faded to the color of a storm cloud, and a thick layer of Butte dust sat upon his curved fenders like a half-finished excavation. His chrome bumpers were pitted with age, and his headlights were clouded and dim. He looked tired, neglected, and profoundly alone.
"He’ss... he’ss breath-lesss," Ssizle murmured, sliding down B-Gray’s hood. "Like a sstatue in an empty courtyard."
"He’s just sleeping, laddie," Thaddeus said, though his voice lacked its usual theatrical boom. "He needs a spark. A bit of 'electric' encouragement."
“Thaddeus is correct,” agreed Aruna. “What we need is a way to revive him. What we need is a few lines of this copper that is lying everywhere.”
“Leave it to me,” shouted Zippo, who was determined to have a part in this unfolding play. “Maxwell, we need strands of copper—stat! Hurry—the patient hasn’t got long!” As Maxwell obediently sniffed his way to the back of the carriage house, Zippo pulled out a stethoscope from his pocket and began listening for signs of life. He placed the stethoscope on B-Gray’s hood and began mumbling to himself in a tone of concern.
"Where does he get all this stuff?" questioned Cressida. She gave a quizzical look toward the all-knowing Aruna, who was perched on the side of the carriage house, a broken beam providing a perfect spot to oversee proceedings. Aruna gave a shrug and stretched his wings, weary from the long journey. "I have no answer to explain anything that Zippo does anymore," he replied, scanning the field behind him with a twitch of his neck. Cressida blinked a slow blink and began to lick her front paw while they waited for Maxwell to return.
Minutes later, Maxwell returned, two long strands of copper wire dragging between his legs as he shuffled back to the carriage house. He dropped them in front of the beetle and shook his head vigorously side to side. His jowls made a painful slapping sound as he flicked the copper taste from out of his salivated mouth. It wasn't a taste he cared for.
Aruna flew down from the beam and clutched the copper wire, one strand at a time, placing them from B-Jay's battery terminals to B-Gray's. Thaddeus assisted in securing them with several strands of his spider silk. “There, that should suffice,” stated Aruna when Thaddeus had finished securing each ends of the copper wire.
"Now we will see about reviving this patient," voiced Zippo, taking over proceedings. “Alright, people, look alive! We haven't long, or we will lose him to the scrapyard in the sky! The electrolyte levels are nonexistent, and his spark is colder than a Montana winter!”
He turned to B-Jay, “I need a steady flow from your alternator, B-Jay. On my mark!”
Thaddeus watched from the mirror, his kilt fluttering. He could not help but admire Zippo's theatrical performance. He could not also feel deep down that this needed to work, for B-Jays sake.
Zippo continued with a voice of authority. “Charging to 200! Everyone stand clear of the chassis! Clear! Now, B-Jay...”
A blue spark danced across the copper, marking the air with a charred smell. B-Gray’s engine gave a hollow, metallic clunk, then fell silent again. Zippo leaned in, pressing the stethoscope to B-Gray's engine. "Still no pulse," he voiced. "Let's go again, people... charging..."
B-Jay responded once more, turning over his engine again; it revved loudly in response. Once more there was a dull creaking followed by a thud, then silence.
“Nothing. Still no pulse,” Zippo whispered, his voice dripping with dramatic tension. He looked up at the sky as if accusing the clouds. “Not on my watch, B-Gray. Not today!”
Digger Bo, sensing the desperation in Zippos voice began to tumble, over and over on the spot, hoping that some of his kinetic energy might help. Maxwell paced energetically behind him.
Zippo turned back to the copper wires. “We’re going higher! Charge to 350! I want enough juice to light up the whole of Montana! Stand clear! CLEAR! I need everything this time, B-Jay—everything you've got. It's now or never.”
B-Jay responded; his engine screamed as he hit maximum revs. He held it for as long as he could, the air choking with exhaust fumes behind him, before switching back to a comfortable idling. This time, the surge was so strong the copper wires glowed a dull orange. B-Gray’s frame gave a violent shudder. A puff of gray smoke coughed out of the exhaust, followed by a wheezing, rhythmic gasp. Suddenly, with a sound like a mountain clearing its throat, the engine caught. Vroom-chug-vroom.
Zippo collapsed onto the air filter, wiping the beads of sweat from his brow with a tired swipe from a foreleg. Like a surgeon having spent a whole day in the operating room he wearily stumbled away from the V1 Beetle, putting the stethoscope back into his pocket as he reclined onto B-Jays front seat. A wry smile etched across his face.
Everyone cheered as B-Gray's engine hummed alongside B-Jay's. B-Gray looked around, his headlights opening and closing with some measure of confusion as he tried to work out who all these unfamiliar onlookers were. Then he caught sight of B-Jay, and a slight rattle of his exhaust hummed in recognition.
"Grandson, is that you?" The words were weary, with a gravelly tone tinged with years of working the mines. He coughed twice sending two dark plumes into the air from his rattling exhaust.
As the steady, rhythmic thrum-thrum-thrum of B-Gray’s ancient engine settled into a proud idle, the two Beetles sat facing one another. It was like looking into a mirror that reflected eighty years of history.
"Yes, Grandfather," B-Jay replied, his engine warming with overwhelming relief. "I’ve been looking forward to this moment ever since the day I found that old picture of you in the time capsule."
"My time capsule!" B-Gray chuckled. "How on earth did you find that? It must be thirty years since we buried that. My, my, Grandson, there must be a tale worth hearing."
"That and many others, Grandpa," voiced B-Jay proudly, his engine stuttering with excitement as he tooted his horn several times, not really knowing where to begin.
Sensing B-Jay’s overwhelming emotions, Aruna took a moment to interject. “My dear B-Gray,” he began with a click of his beak, "I do not wish to break up such a moving reunion, but I do believe an introduction may well be in order. The people you see before you are all B-Jay's friends, and although we have shared many memorable adventures so far, I do believe this one to be the most monumental for your grandson. My name is Aruna. Let me introduce you to all the members of our party of friendship.”
Aruna then began introducing everyone one by one. B-Gray listened with the eagerness of his newfound life. Not only was it good to feel alive again, but to catch up on some of the history that had unfolded while he had been sleeping was pleasantly enlightening. Once Aruna had finished, B-Gray thanked them all for bringing B-Jay to him and for awakening him to such a marvelous opportunity.
"Well then, Grandson," B-Gray said calmly, his dim headlights brightening as he looked toward the open road. "It seems you have much to share with me. Why don't you tell me some of these tales that you and your friends have shared? Let’s hit the open road together. I need to get the oil flowing, and I want to see if the Montana sky is as blue as I remember. It has sure been a long time since I have felt the life flowing through my tired, old chassis."
"The adventure continues," voiced Zippo as everyone climbed aboard B-Jay, taking up their usual positions—all that is except Cressida, who took the opportunity to climb aboard B-Gray.
"I hope you don't mind," voiced Cressida, pruning herself as she sat on her haunches, feeling B-Gray's cold, worn leather upholstery beneath her feet. "Only, I thought as we drive along I could share some thoughts with you about your grandson."
"Oh, I don't mind at all, Ma'am," replied B-Gray, giving his horn a deep, squeaky bellow of approval. "It would be my pleasure if a pretty little lady like you were to accompany me on this most unexpected of journeys. The pleasure is all mine!"
"So where are we heading, Grandpa?" asked B-Jay, all eyes staring toward the V1 Beetle, which sloped forward, taking the lead along the gravel path that led away from the carriage house.
"I thought maybe you would like to see where I grew up and spent most of my life, Grandson. We are heading toward the copper mine at the foot of White Horse Mountain. It's a short drive and one I have made more times than you could have had adventures."
The two Beetles turned onto the main road, their engines weaving together a tapestry of sound that filled the crisp afternoon air. B-Jay followed closely, his vibrant red paint a stark contrast to B-Gray’s weathered slate-gray. As they drove, the industrial outskirts of Butte began to fall away, replaced by the rugged, towering presence of White Horse Mountain.
The road was narrow and dusted with the same copper-colored earth that had revived B-Gray. To B-Jay, every mile felt like he was driving through the pages of a history book. He watched his grandfather’s silhouette ahead of him—the way B-Gray took the corners with a slow, deliberate grace, his fenders swaying like the shoulders of an old hiker who knew the trail by heart.
“You see that, Grandson?” B-Gray’s voice crackled over the hum of the road. He tilted his frame toward a jagged opening in the side of the mountain. “That’s the gateway to the deep.”
They pulled to a stop at the foot of the mountain. To the others, it looked like a tired, forgotten scar on the hillside. The timber frames were gray and splintered, and the iron tracks leading into the tunnel were choked with weeds. Zippo hopped onto B-Jay’s hood, looking a bit underwhelmed. “It’s a bit... quiet for a world-famous mine, isn’t it?” he whispered, his antennae twitching.
B-Gray gave a long, echoing rattle of his exhaust—a sound that wasn't a cough, but a deep, nostalgic sigh.
“It’s quiet now, little friend,” B-Gray began, his headlights dimming as he looked into the dark mouth of the cave. “But if you listen close enough, you can still hear the heartbeat. This mountain was once the loudest place on Earth. It was a cathedral of industry.”
He rolled forward a few inches, his tires crunching on a bed of discarded ore. “This copper... it’s the magic that wired the world. Before these shafts were sunk, the night was a dark, lonely place. But the metal we pulled from this rock carried the first sparks of light to the furthest corners of the globe. It carried the voices of mothers to their sons across the sea. It was the nervous system of a planet that was finally waking up.”
B-Gray’s voice grew solemn, his headlights casting long, pale shadows against the mountain wall. “And when the world fell into the great darkness of the wars, this mine became its shield. This copper was the veins of the ships and the nerves of the planes. Thousands of men toiled in the heat and the dark down there, just to make sure the lights stayed on for everyone else. They weren't just digging for metal; they were digging for a future.”
He looked back at B-Jay, his clouded headlights suddenly clear with pride. “We aren't just machines, Grandson. We are part of that story. The copper that revives us today is the same copper that defended the world yesterday. It’s a lineage of fire and light.”
B-Jay sat perfectly still, his own engine cooling with a series of respectful metallic clicks. He looked at the dark opening of the mine and, for the first time, he didn't see a hole in the ground. He saw the shadows of the past, moving like ghosts through the shafts, weaving the wires that held the world together.
Thaddeus adjusted his tartan kilt, his eight legs stilled as he gazed at the jagged, hollowed-out mountain. He looked at B-Gray, then at the dark mouth of the mine, and finally at B-Jay. He spoke not with his usual theatrical boom, but with the hushed reverence of a spider who had just witnessed a glimpse into time.
"Aye, B-Gray," Thaddeus whispered. "It brings to mind the words of the Great Bard himself, when he spoke of the treasures hidden in the deep and how the world transforms what we think is lost."
He cleared his throat—a tiny, dry sound—and projected his voice just enough to reach the weathered fenders of the old Beetle:
"Nothing of him that doth fade, But doth suffer a sea-change into something rich and strange."
"That’s what this hill is, laddie, Act 1, Scene 2 from The Tempest by the Great Bard himself," Thaddeus continued, looking at B-Jay. "The men and the metal... they didn't just fade away into the dark. They suffered a change. They became the lights in our houses and the sparks in our hearts. They became something rich and very strange indeed."
"So William Shakespeare wrote about this mine?” questioned Maxwell, his head cocked to the side with a slight hint of confusion.
“He may well have, laddie, aye!” replied Thaddeus, as everyone tried not to laugh at Maxwell’s never-ceasing ignorance of all things poetical.
Before Maxwell could catch on to the raucous expressions that surrounded him, Digger Bo spoke for the first time since leaving Great Falls. “Do we have time for a spot of mine tumbling? I would love to say that I had tumbled somewhere famous. Maybe I could be the first to complete my world-famous quadruple tumble before we leave.”
“Whilst I do not profess to have the slightest inkling of what you just said there, my furry badger friend, the mines are probably sealed nowadays, and were you to find a crack to enter through, they would likely be a little unsafe for what sounds like an energetic enterprise.”
"I think you will also find that we need to leave soon,” interjected Aruna. “Not wishing to break up this wonderful family gathering, but the light is starting to fade, and I am not sure how safe the Highland Pass will be if we have to negotiate it in the dark of night. I didn’t notice many streetlamps along that stretch of the road homeward.”
"Aruna is right,” agreed B-Gray. “I think we should head back now. Maybe we could continue this history lesson at some time in the future.”
“I see what you did there,” voiced Zippo, moonwalking backward along the dashboard. “That was a dad joke—talking about the past in the future. I like it!”
B-Gray’s engine gave a deep-bellied rumble as he looked at Cressida. “I see what you mean about our little friend here,” he said, his lights winking against the hillside. “He does have a most infectious nature.”
There was no time for Zippo to respond as B-Gray turned sharply on the remnants of discarded ore before disappearing back toward the carriage house. It was almost sunset as they arrived.
Once back inside the carriage house, B-Gray and B-Jay shared a moment together where they didn’t say goodbye but made plans for the future. B-Jay listened mostly. It was both comforting and nice to just hear his grandfather speak after such a long time spent wrestling with such nagging indecision. His questions about B-Gray had finally been answered, and he couldn’t help but feel that they were nothing more than a minute itch in the presence of what he had learned since—what he was learning with every word and moment he spent in the presence of his grandfather.
He could have stayed; he could have watched and happily said goodbye to the others as they left to go home. His itch might have been scratched by now, knowing the answers to his roots, but now he was left with a warm, fuzzy hole in his mind. Every word and every moment spent in his grandfather's presence added substance to that hole. He realized that he hadn’t found closure; he had found something much deeper—a newfound longing that only time could fulfill. A longing for time spent hearing more about his grandfather's life—a life that connected him to something more than his friends. He valued his friendships and even considered them all family, but this was different. His newfound relationship with his grandfather went deeper. These were the roots of his beginnings—roots that went deep into the past, roots that he was to continue in the future.
It was B-Gray who spoke first when they got back. No one else really knew what to say.
“You know, Grandson. If meeting you today has taught me one thing, it is that time has a habit of moving on for the better. Today I gave you a glimpse of my past—a past that was carved from the toils and troubles of a world slowly waking up. A world slowly moving forward. A world shaped by war and the ignorant prejudices of a society trying to find its way—like miners in the dark trying to unearth something precious. Something that could shape life for the better. What today gave me was an insight into how the future has changed. Meeting you and your eclectic band of friends tells me that the world has indeed stepped forward. I never thought I would see the day when an owl, a dog, a badger, a cat, a spider, a snake and an ant could all come together as one. We really can all live in peace. You’ve shown me, and now it is time for you to shape the future. Let the world see how far you have come. Time for you all to go home and show your band of brothers to the world. Maybe in the future, I can tell you of mine. They used to call us the 'Iron Guard!'"
“What did I say?” spoke Zippo, unable to hold back his ‘told you so’ moment. “Didn’t I say we needed a gang name? If anyone had listened to me, I could have been a prophet!”
“Maybe we can discuss that on the way home,” voiced Aruna with a chuckling click-click of his sharp beak, eager to depart. His head flicked around constantly as the moon rose slowly on the distant horizon.
“Aruna is right; you should really all head off now if you are to make it home before morning,” B-Gray insisted grudgingly.
As they all climbed back aboard B-Jay for the journey home, B-Gray said his goodbyes before making B-Jay a promise.
“Well, Grandson, I cannot tell you how much today has meant to me. I will be thinking of you every day into the future. I got to show you a piece of my history today, and maybe one day in the future, I could take another road trip to your home. Maybe see a little of the world you have made for yourself, and maybe then you can tell me all about these adventures that you and your friends have been having. I would like that. I would like that a lot!”
“Do you promise, Grandpa?” asked B-Jay, his side mirrors giving a twitch of unbridled hope. "I would like that too.”
No one spoke further as B-Gray and B-Jay said their goodbyes. It reminded them of the moment that Cressida met Ludwig after having spent so long apart. They remained quiet and still, reflecting on the magnitude of the moment. It was another moment in their long history that bound them together; another moment that deepened their friendship and appreciation of each other.
“Goodbye, Grandson,” voiced B-Gray, his lights flickering affectionately.
"Goodbye, Grandpa," responded B-Jay as a few teardrops of fluid leaked from his windshield washers. He turned and drove slowly down the gravel path. As they left, they could hear B-Gray's voice in the background.
“Breaker, Breaker 19, this is B-Gray looking for any of the Iron Guard. Copy. Breaker, Breaker 19, this is B-Gray calling out for any of the old guard—have you got your ears on? This is B-Gray standing by!”